I hate choices. They're the nails that pin my Peter-Pan soul down to the floor. In my melodramatic mind, it seems that one teeny choice can unalterably close one door and send me hurtling through a door I'm not sure if I want to enter.
Some large part of me still wants to flit about like Peter Pan's shadow in life, unfettered by the choices that life keeps reminding me I should pay attention to. Choices like where to live, what church to go to, where to settle down...they're all things I want. I want a picket fence and a church family, but I'm afraid to let my toes slide over the doorway. Because I am all or nothing, when I give myself to something, I give myself fully, which is good. But it also means that now I am shy, like I've just been in too many bad relationships and don't want to get tied down or have to break up again.
Like now. Mike and I are thinking of buying a home. Nothing terrifies or thrills me more. One second I'm so excited. Another second, I want to quit my job, run off somewhere crazy, and just forget this whole "adult" thing.
I want home and roots, but a hundred "what ifs" invade my mind. What if we should really run away to a goat farm in Kauai? What if Mike should become a dinner theater actor in L.A.? What if we should go be baristas in Starbucks in Edinburgh? What if?
So I'm shuffling on the stairs, unsure whether to go up or down, to grow up or run away.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet...
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.