Decision-making, in retrospect, was simpler in youth, even the tough decisions. From choosing which burger to which college, most were cut-and-dried.
The more the years pass, the more complicated it gets. I bet the young folks have no trouble picking out a home computer or laptop. At a store, the few times I’ve done it, one question is, how much memory. I’ve done my homework and I think it’s X. The sales clerk says that’s not enough for games. I don’t play computer games. But you might, he says, or a houseguest might.
I don’t buy all that extra memory, but worried about the unknown future, I buy a bit more than was built in. A kid would either buy as much as he can or with confidence predict future needs.
In late 1992 I bought my fiance a diamond for the wedding band we planned to put on her finger the following March. Went to a reliable jewelry store, where the question was not simple. I thought a thousand bucks bought you X, and you’d decide that was fine or it needed to be $1,250 for a nice rock, or get a loan for a gem that pleased her and all that.
The diamond issue broke down into quality and quantity. A thousand got you a nice-sized stone but with ordinary clarity and color and those other suddenly scary terms. A smaller diamond for that price from a reputable dealer would be a higher-quality crystal.
In 10 years, what would matter more? For my fiance, myself and people who glance at her left ring — we don’t know clarity or color. It sparkles in the restaurant, in the sanctuary. A jeweler would know roughly with her naked eye, more precisely with a loupe.
The jeweler was not invited. He had seemed pleased with our choice, though: A few steps down from the biggest diamond for the budget line but with commendable color and clarity.
In the middle of middle age, even menu items are as complicated as buying a diamond for a ring. What’s in it, how’s it made, how far does it blow the diet and can I get a workout in tomorrow to burn off the calories. Decisions, decisions, wouldn’t it be nice to be young and just get what you want.
Last weekend we’re eating breakfast out with folks who are career military, just a little younger than us. My Beloved and I order scrambled egg substitute and wheat toast. He orders a tall stack of pancakes and she a short stack with bacon. They use lots of butter and syrup. She’s slender; you can see his rigid six-pack abs through his T-shirt while mine are, well, implied even when bare-chested.
Being in the service means a lot of decisions are made for you — but this is ridiculous. -30-
