I’ve never been much chop when it comes to making decisions.
It might be the reason I never became CEO of a major company. It might be the reason I never became CEO of a small company.
I was always happy to be the soldier, the guy who got things done, happy with my pat on the back and the odd beer on the boss’s tab.
I’m not sure why. It’s not that I was decision-deficient. Actually, I like to think the choices I have made over the years have been adequate.
Wanda was a superb choice, yet on reflection I’ve got a sneaky inkling she might have been the one who chose me. We chose where we live and we’ve never second guessed that one.
And at work, I’ve made many a split-decision. The news industry demands it of us at times, and we do what we need to do.
Perhaps it’s just the thought of unnecessary responsibility that turns me off. If ignorance is bliss, there’s a certain euphoria about not having to be part of other people’s problems.
That’s the upside. There is however, a distinct downside to being a commitment procrastinator – one who sits back and watches things unfold. Not in a horrible, recalcitrant way. More in a “someone will come to my rescue with a definitive way forward” kind of way.
You can probably see where this is going. There are times Wanda leaves me to my own devices, sans shopping list, to fend for myself in a supermarket.
There’s an advertisement on television where a boy enters a supermarket, can’t make up his mind, and leaves an old man.
It’s exactly how I feel in the cereal aisle, wondering whether I should be eating the things shaped like a cricket bat, eating a crunchy milkshake, or whether I’m happy enough to be known as an “Aussie kid”.
At least cereals each have a distinctive flavour. They’re different.
It gets more challenging when I find my way down the toilet paper aisle. They look the same, but you know in your heart of hearts they’re not.
Nobody wants to be the one responsible for two-ply, or the one that might as well have newspaper ink all over it. It said it was recyclable. That was supposed to be a good thing.
Then, even worse, the dog food aisle is where it gets most problematic. It’s okay if I get things wrong for myself. Wanda may even forgive me if she’s the recipient of my ill-directed, yet well-intended choice.
Who knew the cheap dishwasher tablets crumble the minute they hit hot water?
The dog is however, another matter. The poor thing can’t tell me what he wants. He can tell me what he likes and dislikes, when he’s there staring me eye-to-eye, gaslighting with the aplomb of an experienced negotiator.
Guilt sets in because I’m the only one who knows I skimped on the normal kibbles to save a few cents. I’m sure the dog knows, too.
Never mind. Here I am, trying to read the dog’s mind – in his absence – when choosing a tasty treat, so I fall into the trap of dog food companies who convince me their product is best because it costs $5 more.
Hey Wanda. You there?
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