Decisions, decisions, decisions

I woke up last Friday at 6:30 a.m. to a cloudless, sunny sky and an old wicker couch—pulled out of winter hibernation—that beckoned me to sit awhile near the creek.
Signing up for the day by way of the morning sun, with a cup of hot coffee, some journal writing, and bird watching, was a no-brainer decision.
I donned the black mini-gloves I keep hoping soon will be retired to the suitcase of winter clothing (yet wonder why I bother to wear them at all, as they have yet to do their job against the cold).
Needless to say, my fingers still froze as I penned out my thoughts and drank java—resolved to wait it out in the quivering five C (41F) temperature until the sun broke the back of the morning chill.
And when I got up to get more coffee and turned around to see that I’d been sitting in dried bird poop for the last half-hour—well, even that little nasty didn’t thwart my decision to do my morning any differently.
An hour later, I sat thinking about my spontaneous personality—a rare creature that pops into my organized life once in a while—and which had provoked me out of the blue a day earlier to buy a ticket to the Ducks Unlimited banquet this coming Friday.
I’m the first one to admit I don’t get out much. I know this because I’m still surprised by the touchless faucets in the local department store bathroom.
I also know this because as I sat in the sun smiling at the fact that I was actually “going out,” I suddenly realized I had nothing to wear but jeans.
During my spring cleaning frenzy in early April, I had followed the advice of the closet gurus and got rid of everything I hadn’t worn in the last 12 months.
That left two pairs of jeans, and a pair of khakis, one sweatshirt, two T-shirts, and three sweaters I just put away in the winter clothing suitcase.
Oh brother. I had finally achieved “What Not to Wear” status and had become a desperate candidate for any number of women’s magazines and television programs that do makeovers.
But could they get here in the next seven days?
The truth is, I don’t like shopping for clothes because I hardly ever find anything that I think fits. Seriously.
Okay, my self-esteem and decision-making skills in the fashion department need tons of work. But I am not wishy-washy when it comes to what I would or wouldn’t do if I was faced with certain personal challenges as a participant in the “Amazing Race” television show.
I know this for sure after eight friends of the female persuasion got together Friday night to play—for the first time—the DVD interactive game version of the popular reality show.
We had a blast flying from continent to continent—visiting China, India, Africa, Thailand, and Australia without ever leaving our seats (except to pour another drink or eat more junk food).
Among other objectives, teams of two had to make individual decisions about the challenges each would face in the race for a million dollars. If their choices matched, they’d move ahead.
Ladies, you all rocked in the race. However, there are some things I just can’t do—no matter how much money is on the table.
Would I rather have my head shaved or eat cooked cow intestines? My hairdresser knows for sure. Make me an appointment.
Would I rather endure a cave full of flying bats or eat two kg of fish caviar all at once? Well, my head already would be shaved so I wouldn’t have to worry about bats in my hair, so that decision was easy.
Besides, the only eggs I eat that don’t come from a chicken are the chocolate ones at Easter.
And then there was the big decision about whether to voluntarily jump out of a plane and skydive or drive an SUV through the desert without getting stuck.
For me, it was another no-brainer, but my teammate, “The Right Honorable Hostess,” didn’t agree.
After we lost that round, she looked me straight in the eye and said, “I hate driving.”
I wanted to flat stare her right into the chip bowl.
If this was real life and I got stuck in the Mojave desert sand in my SUV and had to forfeit a million dollars, at least I could go home and cry in my cold beer.
If, instead, I chose skydiving and my parachute didn’t open, what then? I would get to the ground before everybody else, that’s what (unless, of course, I packed my own parachute, but then again, I can’t even refold a street map back into its original state).
Meanwhile, amid the battle for first place, we were most entertained by the #1 sister who repeatedly shouted “Boycott!” every time we flew to China and advertised her plan to break up the chipmunk gang digging holes in her backyard.
In order to win, the U.S.-edition game forced us to surrender half-baked knowledge about American cities like Boston and Philadelphia. All I know about the two metropolitan centres is an association with food, namely Boston Cream Pie and Philadelphia Cream Cheese.
Sadly, those questions weren’t a part of the game.
Instead, we were quizzed about the location of the behemoth cement staircase in Philadelphia that Sylvester Stallone trotted up in “Rocky.”
All I remember about the 1976 movie was that, thankfully, it had an ending.
Oh yeah, and would I rather block puck shots in a hockey game or drink shots of Russian vodka balanced on a sword?
I agree with the “Queen Bee.”
Na zdorovia! There’s more to life than hockey.

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