Decisions, decisions

Indecision is a nasty characteristic that plagues me to the deepest core of my very existence and beyond. The worst display of my chronic ambivalence emerges when the topic of discussion is eating out. Date night can become an ugly affair if the restaurant is not carefully selected in advance. It can take PB and I an hour to pick a restaurant.

"Where do you wanna go?"

"I dunno. Where do you wanna go?"

"Oh, I don’t care."

"What sounds good?"

"Oh, whatever. What sounds good to you?"

"Eh, I dunno."

The apathy is rolled back and forth until one of us gets irritated. Usually the hungriest person is the first one to snap. Usually that’s me. Both parties are now irritated, hungry, and still unable to reach a decision. PB accuses me of being picky. I accuse him of being... indecisive.

Unfortunately, I am like a small child when it comes to eating. While I don’t let loose a shrill shriek to announce my hunger, I do get rather testy. Sometimes downright vile. PB has learned the hard way and he now knows when I start to get snippy it’s feeding time. If you give a shrew a cookie... or something like that. Yes, every two hours, like bloody clockwork, I’m ready to eat again. Doesn’t matter if it’s Thanksgiving dinner, so help me, two hours later I’m gnawing on a corn cob.

Anyway, we eventually choose a place out of sheer exhaustion, but the anguish doesn’t end there. I also have a seemingly incurable inability to make decisions when it comes to ordering food. Considering PB and I do not typically dine any further west than West End Blvd., most of the menus presented by downtown Cape Girardeau restaurants are seared into my brain. It just doesn’t matter. Not in the least.   

As the server approaches the table, I begin to panic and wildly flail an arm toward the person or persons around me in a mad gesture for them to order first. I feverishly scan the menu as though I hadn’t studied it closely for the past 10 minutes. This is typically followed by an obsessive-compulsive type motion of hand clamping and nervous mutterings of "uh, ooh, um." Having finally made everyone, including the server, exceptionally uncomfortable, I blurt out the first thing that pops into my mind. He or she quickly scribbles down the order, snatches the menus and scurries away. I wipe the sweat from my face and hunch over in defeat, bemoaning my choice of food. Cognitive dissonance at its very worst, anxiety ridden production at its very best. Or maybe it’s the other way around.

So it goes. And tonight, I, uh, I promise to give PB full restaurant choosing privileges - maybe.