Feb 15, 2019 4 min read

As the farmer was making us breakfast the other day, he turned from the stove and asked a very benign question.

“Do you want tomatoes in your omelet?”

I sat there, staring into space, unable to decide.

“Yes? No? Hellooooo,” he said, spatula in hand, waiting.

When I finally came to, I explained that I just can’t be expected to decide; I’ve had to make too many decisions lately.

I’ve written in this space about my many hours spent in the edit room, where I’m completing production of a documentary for WQED. When reduced to its moving parts, editing a film is nothing more than a collection of thousands of decisions. A timeline graph on the computer shows a stripe for each bit of sound, speech, picture and music that’s been edited into the show. Tilted forward, the timeline looks like a long hairbrush, with every bristle a choice the editor and I have made.

It’s detailed, exhausting work that requires patience and focus. After a long day doing that, I don’t want to make any more decisions. I am devoid of opinion.

Treadmill or bike at the gym? Not sure.

Where do we want to go for dinner? Too hard. We’ll eat in. What should I cook? I don’t know.

Use the yellow coffee cup or the Snoopy one? Who cares?

(Actually, I don’t care who cares, because that would require another decision.)

Among the benign decisions are the more important ones. The farmer and I are redoing our den. To transform it from a dingy, carpeted, 1974-ish eyesore, we’ll need hardwood flooring, light fixtures and new paint.

The farmer decided on blue. But asking which blue is like asking what to watch on Netflix. There’s a crippling variety.

We started looking: Denim Wash, Azure, Bright and Early, Sweet Bluette, Watercolor, Morning Glory, Grandma’s Sweater – it would be fun to be the person who names the paint colors. (No, it wouldn’t-too many decisions.) After a while, they all started to look the same. At one point, suffering blue fatigue, I suggested we start perusing the purple family.

“You decide,” I told the farmer. “I can’t.”

We narrowed it to the pale blues, more gray than green. Even that category had dozens of blues. After what seemed like three hours, we decided on a shade called Raindrop Blue.

“Next, the flooring,” the farmer said. But by then I’d made my quota of decisions for the day. I’m assuming the farmer will choose a nice, light oak or maple. So long as the ratty tan carpet is gone, I really don’t have an opinion. He chose the light fixtures, too.

Doctors say decisions happen in the frontal lobe. My forehead is so large, you’d think I could go around deciding things all day without getting burned out, but I guess my brain isn’t as big as I’d thought. Maybe what doctors are missing is that our frontal lobe can manage just a finite number of decisions over a lifetime, and then it’s depleted. I think I passed empty a month ago. As soon as I finish this sentence, I have to decide what to wear to work today. I’m due back in editing soon.

The farmer went ahead and put the tomatoes in my omelette. I think it was delicious, but at this point, I’m not sure.

The blue paint is up on the walls, and I think it’s exactly right – but don’t ask me.