pick and choose

Someone recently told me I should avoid making any big, life-changing decisions until I’m twenty-five, claiming that before that age, the decision-making part of the human brain is not completely (or effectively) wired. Being just shy of my twenty-third birthday when I heard this, I was initially offended by the statement, as it seemed to imply I was too young (see: stupid) to know what I wanted. In the months since, I have begun to embrace my apparently unprepared-to-choose brain as an excuse to postpone the making of decisions; I’m happy to reschedule my date with the real world for some undisclosed day in the not-before-I’m-twenty-five future.

But part of me fears I may be taking the notion of indecision a little too seriously. Not only have I failed to choose a potential field of graduate study or a possible institution at which to study this (as yet undetermined) field, but I have also avoided characterizing myself as either “single and available” or “involved and unavailable” in the realm of romantic relationships. I have opted, instead, to float around in the land of the latte, waiting to collide with a then obvious and clearly-compatible-with-me career path before committing myself to further education. In the meantime, I also remain involved in what would be a long-term relationship if it was, in fact, an actual relationship and not the non-committed, non-specific interaction it currently is—which affords me the (admittedly odd) luxury of being both single and involved simultaneously.

I have always been somewhat indecisive, but it’s getting kind of ridiculous, particularly with regard to food and clothing. There are days on which I will skip meals altogether to eliminate the need for a dietary decision. Or, if hunger gets the best of me, I will fall back on my basic diet of cereal, cottage cheese, apples, and soybeans (a menu on which I have been known to subsist for days at a time) for sustenance to avoid facing the plethora of culinary possibilities pressuring me to choose between them.

I have a similar reaction to clothing selection, often dressing myself in the previous day’s dreds (as I’ve mentioned before) to save myself the headache of choosing something new. Indecision is a major contributor to my pattern of perpetual wearage.

My days away from work suffer the most as a result of my indecisive nature. I feel frequently overwhelmed by the notion of entertaining myself for an entire day, and burdened by the responsibility of single-handedly selecting all activities to assist me in this task. Sometimes, I’ll (hesitantly) admit, I’d rather be working. In that case, I have eight less hours to fill, eight less hours of choosing to do. Pathetic, I know.

I’m trying to become more decisive when confronted by everyday choices—proudly and confidently opting for sushi over sandwiches or jeans over yesterday’s corduroys—but I’m not always successful. So, I’ll keep battling my indecision while taking comfort in my obviously-at-fault-and-under-twenty-five-years age. After all, the decision-making part of my brain is still more than a year away from being wired for full-service. Until that time (and based on biological ineptitude), I reserve my right to uncertainty.