The Decision Fatigue**

Choosing to wear Malcolm is the only choice I am left able to make, it seems.

Let me caveat this post by (re)articulating how being single is a choice which is one I will continue to make until I meet a man who equal parts elevates me as I do him, who likes to play as much as I do, and who turns to God and me before all others when his heart is in need. Also, someone who likes to have regular dance parties.

Meaning, do not misunderstand this piece to be a sorrowful rueful sorrowing few paragraphs rueing the deliberate choice to be single. And to be even more clear: I. Will. Love. Being. Single. Over being with a man who does not bring me peace AND have a nice bum.

But let me tell you how much I have come to hate making decisions.

I am not here discussing the Libra in me (October 16th, it’s my birthday), who is demented in her need for justice until she can see true and finally meaningful Justice (kindly take note of the capitalization of letters); this, translating into an exhaustive pursuit of knowledge so that the decision taken is one behind which I can stand firmly, and articulate accordingly (until, perhaps, I receive new knowledge about the thing in question).

I am, however, discussing the everyday decisions. The seemingly infinite decisions one is forced to make, just to get the fuck by from waking until crashing.

Are you sitting? Because, I am about to tell you how many decisions are daily made by the average Maha. ARE YOU SITTING? Please sit.


Read that again.

Thirty five thousand decisions a day are taken by your average Maha. (How Many Decisions Do We Make Each Day, Psychology Today, Sept 27, 2018.) My girl Destine** holds copyright over ‘Decision Fatigue.’ When these two words fell from her mouth, Angels sang. Because Yes Yes, 100% Yes.

Last week saw me involved in a very stressful and emotionally draining familial situation and I would have given anything to have a partner step in and take over, and tell me he was taking care of it. That he would be making all of the decisions, and that I would not have to think twice or worry about everything from that moment to the completion of that situation. Daily, I would love nothing more than someone who I adore and trust, and who has only my/our best interest at heart, deciding things for me/us. Taking things off of my plate, diminishing that 35,000 to 30,000 even. Anything less than the present threshold, in fact.

I don’t want to think about what I’m eating. Where I’m eating it. What we’re going to watch. I don’t want to walk or take the bus, or drive momma’s car because there are an infinite number of decisions and roads and options to take to get from A to B. Do you have a carriage? Please call me.

I think, even, I would be open to a trade. Maybe? Like, let me carry the emotional decisions of a man, while he takes on the logistics of mine. Also, to be a total straight-girl LOSER, please take care of all of my banking, construction, technology, and automobile-related decisions. Let me wear pink while you wear blue, as you make these decisions. Please, dear Allah. Because…

Today, I am so tired. And I just want you to step in and tell me what to do, while you have my best interest at heart. Please.

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