A COLLEAGUE complimented me on my dress earlier this week and went on to say that I had been particularly smartly dressed all week. Aside from the obvious thought – 'Why? Do I normally look like a bag lady?' – it did highlight one large problem in my life. I suffer from chronic indecision.
I know, I know: for someone who is quite so opinionated (and whose opinions are always right, by the way) it seems ridiculous to think that I am congenitally incapable of making a decision for myself.
Yet I can stand of a morning for nearly half a
n hour looking at my wardrobe. The problem isn't that I have nothing to wear, but that I have far too much to choose from and I can't decide. Most days I can eventually pull something together and manage to get out of the house, but there are days when I have to hand the whole process over to someone else – otherwise I would still be stood there come teatime.
Thankfully, Mr Turner has enough X chromosomes to be able to mix, match and co-ordinate beautifully, quite often much better than I would ever manage myself.
It's not just an inability to dress myself. I can hardly feed myself either. A new sandwich shop has opened in St Mary's Street in Edinburgh's Old Town. It's five minutes from the office and it comes highly recommended. I can't possibly go. The thought of having to decide what I want on my sandwich every day sends me into a cold sweat. I would rather eat the same thing on my piece every lunchtime from now until Doomsday than have to choose between cheese, ham, hummus or egg mayonnaise.
Restaurants are a whole other dilemma. What if I pick the wrong thing? What if my meal turns out to be rubbish? What if someone else gets a better dish than me?
I have my own wee coping strategies for such occasions. I either have exactly the same thing every time I go in (as the staff in the Thai restaurant across from the office will testify; 'Yes, massaman chicken again, thank you.') or I pick the first thing that I see and then slam the menu shut and refuse to look at it again. Or I let someone else order for me. That's actually the best course to take. I'm well aware of how ridiculous it is in this day and age for a grown woman to let her husband choose her meal. Waiting staff are constantly giving me pitying glances, thinking that I'm never allowed choices of my own. Sadly, no restaurant is open that late.
My indecision sends friends and family nuts. Some years ago, Mr Turner picked me up from work in the New Town. We were going to go out, have a few drinks and then maybe head off for a bite to eat. He asked me where I would like to go. "Don't mind – anywhere really." Ten minutes later, he asked me again. "Not fussed. Wherever you fancy." I then noticed that we were coming down the Mound for the third time. When I asked him what he was playing at, he told me that he was going to keep driving until I made an actual decision. We almost ran out of petrol before I eventually made the panicked choice to head for the McDonald's drive-in.
That's why I rarely make decisions. Because I make rubbish ones. Or maybe they're good choices. No, they're bad ones. Aren't they?
The full article contains 608 words and appears in Scotland On Sunday newspaper.
