Decisions, Decisions …

“Sour cream, Doritos, Smartfood, jalapeño mac and cheese, or all-dressed?” They ask. I sweat nervously.

“Uh …” I say slowly. “Doesn’t really matter. You can decide.”

They glare at me.

“You were the one who wanted to get chips,” they say, adding on a deep sigh. “So make up your mind.”

The clock ticks; it’s been 5 minutes. Shoppers pass us by with awkward side glances, looking at us and probably wondering, “Why aren’t those people just choosing what they want and leaving already?”

I still haven’t made up my mind. I don’t know.

The above is a real story. So real, it happens on (almost) a weekly basis throughout the school year.

Before I finish the story, though, I feel the need to justify my lack of decision-making skills.

Actually, let’s start by using the correct term. I have decision-making skills, and I’m perfectly capable of employing them on a daily basis, but what I don’t have is confidence that I will make the right decision.

And the reasons why I lack that confidence go perfectly hand-in-hand.

“Really?” the voice in my head whispers, sounding identical to the person beside me. “You’re going to pick that? But everything else is obviously so much better … Why would you ever pick that? Besides, you know that I hate eating that. It’s disgusting; I can’t even imagine anyone liking it.”

I start to freeze. I take a deep breath. I try to think this through rationally, weigh the preferences of those around me along with my own. But the voice has no mercy. It steamrollers on, destroying any rational thoughts I might have.

“You’re making a terrible decision,” the voice continues. “Can’t you see? You’re not even in the right aisle. Chips are terrible for your health. You’re going to develop high blood pressure, high cholesterol, and all these other crazy things for your health soon. What if you got cancer one day from eating all these chips? You’re going to die, one day, Joyce. You’re going to die.”

I’m a statue. My thoughts melt away; time melts away. The faint ticking of the clock haunts me, though: rhythmic and unwavering, it continues.

It’s no longer a clock. It’s a bomb, ticking until …

The person beside me sighs exasperatedly.

They pull a coin out of their wallet.

“Heads, sour cream. Tails, jalapeño mac and cheese,” they declare.

The coin flips.

Heads.

“Okay, great. We can finally get out of here,” they say, grabbing a bag of sour cream and onion chips before grabbing my hand and heading for the checkout.

In my mind, I wonder what could have happened if the coin landed on tails instead.