What is a hard decision? I mean, really? Ok, what is “really”, but if I go down that road, well, I digress. The hardest decision I make will be my next decision. Subjectively, of course. It doesn’t matter if it is about betraying my country or choosing which sort of ice cream to use last on my cone – usually it’s walnut or banana. The decisions I’ve made, well they’re behind me. Sometimes I reflect on the consequences of past decisions, but I haven’t done the kind of stuff that haunts me, yet.
Despite the illness and the depression and the turns in my life, I am psychologically pretty much scar free. I have a few memories I am not exactly fond of, but I have learned from them, and I expect to acquire new memories, good and bad, and make lots of “really hard” decisions. Because if it ain’t hard, it ain’t a decision.
What is hard, is overcoming my inner pigdog. I know, this animal doesn’t exist in the English language. It’s a German import. It pretty much correlates to the English expression “shoulda, coulda, woulda”. It is the mechanism that keeps our impulses in check, but usually it only hampers the useful impulses. It’s what makes us not want to work out, or tell the truth, but it doesn’t stop us from partying all night and having sex with everyone, to paraphrase the Devil in “Tenacious D in the Pick of Destiny”. It’s also what makes us procrastinate on our tax declarations or posting on WordPress. It’s what makes decisions more difficult with every second that we don’t get them behind us.