When it comes to tolerance for risk, there are two types of people, and of the two I am, metaphorically, a window opener rather than a door knocker. As a window opener I need to see the desired outcome through the window, then I will happily open the window, climb through it and walk towards the expected result. A door knocker on the other hand is willing to try something without knowing what’s on the other side of the door. A door knocker is, in short, more comfortable with embracing the risk of an unknown outcome.
The choice to open a window or knock on a door doesn’t just apply to Big Life Choices (a career reinvention, choosing a life partner, starting a business). It also comes into play in mundane day to day decisions. I’d gladly make door-knocking my default mode of choice for the everyday, but too often I’m accosted by the two ugly stepsisters by the names of Too Much Choice and Over-thinking.
Recently I’ve been trying out Hawaiian-style Poke bowls for dinner. Usually you build one up from the ground by mixing and matching the components: start with a base, then a protein, a few veggies and garnishes, and finally a sauce. Simple enough I think as I scroll through an online delivery menu. So I think. There are 6 bases, 14 proteins, 9 mixes, 15 (yes, 15) sauces, 7 crunches and, in case that doesn’t satiate the most ardent of choice-fetishists, 66 (sixty-six) ad hoc extras for an additional price (and, yes, like a good lawyer I wrote that in words and figures so there can be no doubt about the number). This is more combinations than a TSA-approved suitcase lock.
Let me give you one of the simpler choices. One protein option includes salmon, but there are four types: salmon, cooked salmon, spicy salmon, and crazy salmon. I’m getting into door-knocking territory with the salmon: what exactly is the just “salmon” option, except that, by elimination, it is neither cooked, nor spicy, nor, indeed, crazy?
(This all seems to be some kind of celebration of consumer power through choice. So why stop at the food? Why not give options on preferred packaging or payment currency? And don’t I get a say on the type of delivery driver and vehicle? Hmmm, let me see. I’ll go for a white male, mid 30s, actually anywhere between 25-50 is fine, on a motorcycle, no more than 500cc engine. No, scratch that, let’s go with a non-binary Italian, with either anger management issues or a speech impediment (your choice, I’m not fussy) in a hybrid electric car, hatchback.)
As I sit there, I recall the words of James Gandolfini’s character in the movie Enough Said. He’s standing in a queue in a frozen yoghurt parlour, bemoaning the amount of indecision from others when choosing toppings. It’s just dessert, he quips, you’re not taking out a mortgage. So, it’s just dinner, I remind myself. I press buttons quickly and place my order. (Post-dinner note to self: definitely avoid seaweed base with crazy salmon next time).
As I retire to bed, I resolve there is still some work to be done to avoid regularly depleting myself by searching for windows to open on everyday choices.
The next day I’m in the supermarket and I approach the shelves with the anti-perspirant roll-ons. There is a man there who is trying them out. By that I mean he is taking a roll-on anti-perspirant, unscrewing the cap, wiping the roll-on on the back of his wrist, and then carefully sniffing his wrist. For all my supposed over-thinking, even I never realised there was so much at stake between Ocean Fresh and Aloe Vera. It very much seems that one person’s window is still another person’s door. And this man is intent on finding his window. His assessment is careful and deliberate; he could probably put a wine connoisseur to shame.
I suspect if I got closer to him I would hear him muttering to himself: “Mmm, yes, getting a crisp hint of, erm, brine, and, ooh, just a soupçon of seaweed; very fresh, like the ocean, definitely. And this other one? Yes, a lively, full-bodied rush of Aloe, and some base notes of – what is that? – ah yes, vera, definitely vera. Maybe Ocean Fresh for daytime, and Aloe vera for evenings out?”
He senses someone behind him, and turns to me self-consciously, the cover blown on his surreptitious sampling. I’m not offended so much by his lack of respect for hygiene as I am depressed by his need to ponder this decision over $2 deodorants.
I grab a couple of roll-ons from the shelf with a decisive, instinctive swipe; and shoot him a quick look as if to say “deodorant is deodorant my friend – live a little”. For about five seconds, by comparison, I feel like a well-adjusted adult male who has mastered over-thinking, figured out the paradox of choice and knocked on as many doors as he has opened windows.
Later I glance in my shopping basket to see two decidedly feminine-looking roll-ons sitting there. Ah, so what, I think, everyone sweats the same – there’s no choice there! Then I remember, it’s only men that sweat; women perspire. No, hang on, that’s not right. Horses sweat, men perspire, and ladies glow. Maybe that’s why there are male and female product lines in anti-perspirant. So have I just picked up an under-powered glow-strength product?
I decide I need to put the brakes on this internal chatter. How to distract myself? I’ll treat myself to some frozen yoghurt on the way home.