Hiding from choices

No one who knows me would consider me a coward. I'm not afraid to speak my mind, to bullies or to my betters. I've ridden night trains alone in a reputedly misogynistic country. I'd much rather give the eulogy than be in the coffin. My one less-than-apparent fear, however, undermines all this superficial courage. Every brave act requires internal resolve, and I — I am afraid to admit — am scared of making choices.

Having confessed this weakness, I was understandably shocked at the welcome I received upon returning from spring break. I opened my email account to read, in big black letters from the dean of my residential college, that it is now time to select classes for next fall. I was floored. But it's so early, I thought. I'm still reeling from midterms! I've yet to recover from spring break! I'm trying to decide what to do this summer and how to reach this June. September isn't months away; it's a lifetime away.

But now I have to lay out that lifetime while trying to live in this one, knowing that my plans are a projection at best. I will change my mind back and forth a dozen times between now and then and agonize in each instance. When "then" finally becomes "now," more complete knowledge will suggest a different choice, one that never would have occurred before. Thus the stress of making choices before their time is an exercise in frustration and futility. I'd rather not practice, since anticipating the future greatly decreases my enjoyment of the present. I'd love the luxury of slipping into my decisions, like a chance conversation or a serendipitous introduction. I want to make only effortless, wholly satisfying choices.

Unfortunately, not all choices are like this. Some present the burden of responsibility; others aim to identify the least unpleasant of the possible options. All bear the disagreeable taint of reality, which I would like to avoid for as long as possible.

So many times since graduation, I've longed to return to the time when my parents took care of my important decisions. I would preserve the choice of which friends to frequent, which books to read, which clothes to wear, which pastimes to pursue. They would be accountable for scheduling and transporting me to doctors' appointments, completing insurance claims and filling prescriptions, doing laundry and paying bills. They can keep the responsibility, and I'll just have fun. Like Peter Pan, I never want to grow up. I'm perfectly willing to act the adult and to demand adult treatment, but I never want to have to make adult choices.

Course selection is not an adult choice. The consequences of a bad decision — a boring professor, a dull topic, a low grade — cannot be considered "serious." But because I'm a professional student and don't have to worry about preparing food, keeping a roof over my head, or taking care of anyone but myself, I agonize. My future contentment seems to rest on the combination of lectures and precepts, labs and drills that I will frequent next fall. I know it's silly, but I can't help it. Yet I understand that one of these days, when the economy is in recession and I have kids to take to the doctor, I will long for the days when my parents shielded me with their emotional support and the tuition they paid kept scary reality at bay.

It's easy to be brave when there's so little at stake. Emily Stolzenberg is a freshman from Morgantown, W. Va. She can be reached at estolzen@princeton.edu.