Yesterday I visited the University of North Carolina in Chapel Hill with my daughter. Gorgeous place. The weather was perfect, the students were perfect (in that bouncy blond ponytail sort of way.) We got a personal tour of the journalism school from a professor who was also perfect—warm, inviting, enthusiastic.
I would have expected to feel a little wistful, wishing for a do-over. But this experience was so much about my daughter—and about a time in life that is all hers—that it only made me excited for her. (Plus, I have no interest in living in a cell, sitting in a stall every time I have to pee, and sleeping in a bunkbed with a tattered couch and pile of dirty clothes underneath. Or having to walk five minutes in the pouring rain just to eat breakfast with 200 other people.)
Looking backward didn't make me wistful; it made me appreciate how my own choice of college and career worked out so well for me.
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