I have never been good with decisions. As a child, I’d hold up the line at the ice cream counter while I tried to choose one flavor from 31. It might seem a minor matter, but what if I got rainbow sherbet and then spent the whole night pining for pistachio? Rather than risk regret, I’d deliberate—for 10 minutes. Growing up hasn’t helped matters. I puzzle over toothpaste varieties—whitening, extra-whitening, clean mint, spearmint or peppermint? I tote five books to the library, unable to decide which to read that night. When I buy clothing, I never take the tags off right away, because chances are I’ll end up returning it the next week. A simple question such as, “Do you want to go to this party?” can leave me pondering so long that my friends leave without me.
Part of this is due to my personality, but part of it is cultural: we live in an age in which choices abound. And the greater your privilege, the more numerous your options. As a young person and a student at a prestigious university, I feel like I can do virtually anything I want. So what’s the problem? I can do virtually anything I want. Should I sign up for windsurfing classes, teach English in China for a summer, audition for a play, take a French-cooking class, go to a poetry reading or learn self-defense? My method of dealing with so many choices is less than perfect. I stand in the middle of the shampoo aisle of life, seduced by all the brightly colored possibilities until I am driven into a frenzy of indecision, flakiness, aborted plans and near-insanity. “Extra-body. No, moisturizing. No, clarifying grapefruit-scented. No, high-gloss straightening frizz-fighting kiwi-infused. No, extra-body . . . I’ll buy it later!” I am constantly making decisions, then unmaking them, then remaking them, until I have committed to absolutely everything, then absolutely nothing, and am completely exhausted by the effort.
And so, my life is one series of regrets after another. So many chances come my way that I have to let most of them pass me by. Right, you say; cry me a river. But a life full of opportunities is also a life full of disappointment. I may never end up speaking all six Romance languages. I may never travel to every continent except Antarctica. I may never eat Malaysian food, or teach inner-city children how to read, or join the Peace Corps, or go scuba diving, or open a vintage clothing store or learn to play the guitar well. Some people who are privileged become terribly bored with the world. But I am terribly interested in it, so much so that I run around like a small, nervous dog trying to see and experience all of it, but only managing to nip at the ankles of most things. I don’t think I’m alone. The American system of consumer capitalism encourages constant innovation, which is both wonderful and maddening. Nothing is ever good enough to be left alone, since an improvement or enhancement might attract buyers. If a need exists, we’ll think of a hundred ways to meet it; and if a need doesn’t exist, we’ll think of a hundred ways to meet it anyway. As a result, American society is fraught with useless objects, and we are drowning in the muck of our countless possessions.
What’s more, we scoff at unstructured time, instead filling every free hour with fun, exciting, productive, healthful or self-improving activities. Workouts, coffee dates, book groups, soccer carpools, power lunches, therapy sessions, deep-tissue massages. After all, as the saying goes, you only live once. And hey, variety is the spice of life.
This madness is not likely to end soon. So, for now, I resolve to take it one choice at a time. At the ice cream parlor I will breathe deeply and make my selection, keeping in mind that whether I order mint chocolate chip or caramel pecan does not affect the state of world affairs. I will try to be realistic about what can and cannot be accomplished in 24 hours and not to commit myself to things that I really don’t have time for. And I’ll keep studying Spanish and French, because knowing two Romance languages is better than not knowing any. Someday I can use them in the Peace Corps, or when I’m teaching inner-city children to read—if I ever decide to do those things at all.
Jenny Miller, ’03, is an American studies major from Portland, Ore.
