You generally excel at making snappy decisions. You know what you like and you know when you like it; why waste time shopping around to save a few dollars? Burning up gas alone will negate such frugality. The time? That you can never recover. You’ve been known to choose carpet, paint, dogs, appliances, cars, and even houses on the fly.
“Yep, that’ll do. Where do I sign?”
By and large you choose pretty well. You can forgive yourself those occasional bad-impulse clothing items as you toss them into the yard sale collection. That first dog? Blame your son for wanting a manly canine that turned into Cujo. Its replacement is your dog, a dopey, loveable cocker you saw in the wanteds and fell in love with right away. Meanwhile, the eleven year old minivan you bought four days before giving birth is still the best vehicle you’ve ever owned.
Yes, you do pretty well.
Except sometimes. Sometimes you find yourself so hung up on certain decisions that you need someone to talk you through the resulting paralysis. One summer you flew out West to visit your college boyfriend, a surprise for his birthday, only to have your grandmother pass away within hours after arrival. You cried for a whole day.
I planned this for weeks, should I stay or go? Will it make any difference? It will cost money to fly there. She won’t know I’m there, but my mom will. I will. Oh my God, I should have visited her for Christmas. Oh my God, my family does open casket wakes and I’ve never seen a dead person before. Oh my GOD.
At last, you called your dad and begged him to tell you what you should do. He told you to get your butt on a plane, so you did, and of course you’re glad that you did, though at the time you felt pathetic and not at all a grown up twenty year old.
To this day, you hate making emotional decisions, ones that require clarity and the strength to accept whatever outcomes ensue, mostly because someone’s feelings might get hurt or something unforeseen will probably crop up. You aren’t in control, there’s no joy in the decision, and the dread begins to eat at your gut. Face it: you’re the sole responsible party for your household, so you need to get over this ridiculous deer-in-the-headlights response. The world will not end because you chose Door Number One or Door Number Two.
Well … it might.
No, it won’t, so stop pussy-footing around and figure this latest problem out for yourself. Fish or cut bait. Shit or get off the pot.
Or call Dad for advice.
To read more of Colleen’s letters, click here!