Saturday, April 12, 2008

• I have decision making issues. It is a psychosis that goes back generations in my family. My grandmother, my mother, my sister Amy and myself all live with this disability. We change our minds so frequently that we often forget the question. And this knowledge does not bode well in our minds as the majority of our family succumbs to dementia in old age.
  
  Being neurotic about choices and feeling the pressure of the inability to make up my mind, can be difficult to deal with, especially when shopping. Of course, having lived with my decision making disability for all of my 32 plus years, I have learned how to cope and sometimes thrive when emptying the bank account at stores. I have developed rules for shopping that allow me to make decisions quickly and effectively.
  
  Rule number One: If I find a shirt that I would like to buy and can’t decide on the color, then buy both. Wade hates this rule. He thinks it’s weird to have the same shirt in every color. But, that’s coming from a man. And, that fact alone nullifies his opinion.
  
  Rule number two: Restraining orders do not apply to merchandise. Stalk the item you wish to purchase until the price dips below the retail value.
  Rule number three: Any item 75% off or more requires immediate purchase.
  Rule number four: Any item purchased is always returnable. Rule number four was created by my sister. She is a “buyer’s remorse” shopper. Remember there is no cure for “buyer’s remorse.” It is an incurable disease and is no laughing matter.
  Rule number five: Never shop with husband. I am not going to explain rule number five. Just understand that our 12 year marriage is strong because of this very important rule. And no, it doesn’t really apply to my decision making disability, it’s just good advice to pass on.
  
  When the girls in my family are together, the decision making problem escalates to a greater magnitude. This indecisiveness comes out in the worst form when all of us are together in the small confines of the car. One asks the question, “Where do you want to eat?” The silence in the car causes some discomfort much akin to the feeling of heartburn. The driver begins to show distress, her vacillating ulcer pulsating with each second. She comes to a stop light. Knowing she needs to make a right or left turn decision, she pulls into a nearby parking lot. Stopping the car, she rubs her forehead and asks the same question using different syntax.
  
  “What do you guys feel like eating?” Again, there is silence. The blink, blink of the turn signal brings the tune of Jeopardy to our minds as we process the question.
  
  Perhaps it’s the rhythmic turn signal sound or maybe it’s the fear that the question, if left unanswered for too long, may be forgotten by those present in the car. Whatever the reason, my mother decides to exert her influence. She lists the ultimatum that is vital to the structure of any outing in which all sisters or mother are participating in. She clears her throat for emphasis.
  
  “I don’t care where we eat. I just want a restaurant where I can get my own refills.”
  
  The statement causes a symphony of “hmm, oh yes, you know it” in the car. In the history of our family, there is one very important standard that we all live by. Pop is not negotiable. We would prefer it to be Diet Coke. But, let’s face it, when in a pinch, pop is pop and occasionally a Diet Pepsi will suffice.
  
  Fountain pop is a staple. Our family only frequents restaurants where the pop is free-flowing, where we can doctor our own cup, our way. My mother, the matriarch, set the standard high. It was long ago decided and agreed upon that Diet Coke, in and of itself, is fine. But, when in a restaurant that encourages the customer to make the soda choice, Diet Coke mixed with Coke is preferred. And if we were to get technical, ¾ Diet Coke mixed with ¼ regular Coke is the drink of choice. Of course, that’s my mother’s pop recipe. My sister doctors her Diet Coke with the best doctor around, good ole Dr. Pepper. I, on the other hand, like to add a fruit group to my Diet Coke in the form of Cherry Coke.
  
  We are what we are. A family obsessed with fountain drinks. And, yes, I have declined an invitation from Dr. Phil. I don’t want to be cured. I am an obsessive compulsive fountain drink connoisseur. I am addicted to the bubbly, brown, syrupy substance that burns at the first gulp and contains zero calories.
  
  I find it humorous and embarrassing that in a world of extreme choices, the only thing that I know for certain I can decide upon is where to go for a fountain drink. I have difficulty picking out clothes to wear each day. I have difficulty ordering a sandwich from Subway. I even have difficulty choosing which side of my head to part my hair.
  
  But, where do I get the best fountain drink in town? That I know for certainty. The small pieces of ice free falling into the heavy duty paper cup, the “swooshing” sound of liquid luxury flowing into the cup causing the ice to swim, the image is peaceful, comforting. If I leave my house now, I have just enough time to go get my fountain drink and have it consumed before I pick the kids up from school.
  
  Now if only I could decide which road to take to get there.
  

  

  • 4:08 PM
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