Decisions

Mrs Macdonald, my year six teacher, sat on her chair in front of the class. With her left leg crossed over her right, and her ballet flat being cantilevered from her sheerly-stockinged toe, she spoke to us about Decisions capital D.

She understood that we all felt frustrated that we weren't mature enough to make certain Decisions. But, she said, one day, you will have so many decisions to make, you’ll wish others would just make them for you.

We listened solemnly. We were confused. We weren't sure what subject she was teaching, but with the thickening stillness and the swing of the shoe, we knew - no, felt - that whatever was going on, was an important moment.

I did not understand how this could be true.

Ha.

I am having my own moment, one of being sick of decisions. Big ones, little ones, all of the ones.

But. Is making the wrong decision better than making none at all? My head says of course not. My gut? Maybe. Because how can you really tell if something is the right decision? Who adjudicates this? And when? Is not making a decision, in fact, a decision?

I wish I could apologise to Mrs Macdonald now. For my face, with all its fluoro yellow subtitles, telling her that what she was saying was dumb.

HA.

I wish I could ask her more. About what she meant. About why. About what she'd experienced to come to this conclusion. (And whether her stockings were the ones with the sophisticated flight attendants on the packaging. The height of it, I tell you.)

It is a privilege to make decisions. I don't have to make them, I get to. But my word, I am tired.

Yet, I am making them. Time will adjudicate.