I’ve got a choice to make. Well a few choices, actually. And I don’t mean what to have for breakfast. Things that involve money and feelings and where I want my life to go decisions. Like do I want a career where I have to wear polyester pants and a polo shirt? That stuff gives me a rash. And I always jab myself with those stupid little name tags.
I’ve never been good at making up my mind. It’s not the lack of opportunity or vision. It’s more of the opposite. There are so many wonderful possibilities that I want to do them all. But usually that means I spend too much time thinking about it and nothing gets done. Or I divide my energies and wind up running in circles like a dog chasing its tail. That reminds me, take dog walker off of list of careers. I’ve already had my quota of cleaning up after…well, you get the idea.
I envy the people with a calling. The ones who knew from the age of four that they wanted to be a writer or a gymnast or whatever. The ones who actually made plans and sacrifices to make it happen. It never occurs to them to be something else. I call them the lucky ones. But then again, I never had to get up at five in the morning for hockey practice, so I guess it evens out.
I always had the curse of too much intellect to charge blindly forward regardless of the consequences, but not enough to have confidence in my own abilities. It’s the classic Hamlet syndrome, and look how well that turned out for him. A part of me misses the simpler time when you solved your problems at the tip of a sword. And then I think about the lack of indoor plumbing and it passes. Frilly shirts are never a good look either.
But all this musing doesn’t help me decide. Do I roll the die and let chance decide? Do I follow my head or my heart? Do I drift with the wind and see where that takes me? Do I ignore it and hope it goes away? Help me magic 8 ball. You’re my only hope.
Also, I couldn’t decide what to write about.
I want a stupid little name tag.