1976 Rebellion rocks Soweto, America turns 200, Red Army Faction terrorists stand trial in West Germany, and I am an impressionable 15-year-old fresh from seeing the Streisand-Kristofferson remake of A Star Is Born. I regret thinking that if I permed my stick-straight hair to look like Barbra's, I could somehow become fabulous enough to snag Kris Kristofferson. Instead, I attend my first major make-out party looking as if a demented poodle had taken up residence on my head.

1984 John DeLorean is acquitted, the Apple Macintosh is in stores, Miami Vice convinces men to dress as if they were dishes of sherbet, and I am 23 years old, living in New York City. I regret that I didn't raise a little more hell back when I still had nothing to lose. But I got no kick from cocaine and mere alcohol didn't thrill me at all. I was born the old soul, the good girl, the designated soup schlepper, and I actually believed that I had the rest of my life to go dancing in ruby red lipstick.

1989 Exxon screws up Alaska, Salman Rushdie irks the Ayatollah, Zsa Zsa Gabor slaps a motorcycle cop, and I leave a job in real estate that paid more money than I had ever made before—or since—to take a job as an assistant at a little weekly magazine called 7 Days. I'm not sure that changing careers in my late 20s is a brilliant idea, but my father tells me that when you really love what you do, you tend to be pretty good at it, and when you're good at something, the money eventually comes. I regret that I never thanked my dad for saying what I needed to hear at the exact moment I needed to hear it. Only a few years earlier, he'd told me that it's always best to open the garage door before backing out of the garage. Now, that was a situation where he probably should have said something a little bit sooner than when we were standing in the driveway surveying what was left of the car and the garage. Anyway, it was at 7 Days that I met my friend Mark Carson—the person who taught me everything I know about grace and courage and authenticity.