As a teenager, I drafted a list of things I wanted to accomplish in life. It wasn't a long list, really, and I can barely remember what was on it.

None of the goals was serious, though, like teaching someone something useful or pulling someone from a burning building.

Instead, they were simple and had to do with athletic achievements, like running a mile under five minutes, or completing a marathon.

As time passed, my list expanded. I was going to paddle a canoe across the Moloka'i Channel, learn to play the guitar and become fluent in Spanish.

Everything seemed do-able. There was lots of time before turning 20 ... 30 ... 40.

Well, you get the idea what happened.

Nada.

Today, I feel like Walter Mitty, caught between a moment of fantasy and the pang of regret.

I have a paddle and no canoe.

My older daughter plays electric guitar in a band, but I'm just a roadie.

Two of my good friends are Spanish teachers. Hola?

Fifty beckons. Goodbye, ambition. Is it really too late to join the Fire Department?

I read recently that lists are a good thing, presumably for everyone, but certainly for men of a certain age.

Put pen to paper, tackle the things you regret not doing, don't look back.

It sounded like a good idea until I started to write one.

"Run a marathon," for example, became "Make an appointment with a sports medicine specialist about your nagging hamstring."

"Write a novel" became "Find something interesting to say." (As you can see, the failures mount quickly.)

The problem with lists is that people — OK, we men — embrace one extreme or the other. Perfectly reachable goals vs. bungee-jumping goals.

My revised list was a lot more fun to write, especially when I concluded that none of it would ever come true. Think big. Go deep. Comprende?