I'm no longer responsible for my own decisions

Lately, I've been scribbling down notes that I hope would be useful when writing these entries. You see, I could just write about my day and such, but let's face it, my day is oatmeal exciting and no one wants to read that - despite fiber being good for you.

So, I'm going through my notes - which are liberally distributed across three small notebooks, various receipts and the odd cereal box - whatever happened to be handy when the thought collided - and while I may one day post an entry made of entire random thoughts that I couldn't really get 600 words out of, I ran across this:

"I'm no longer responsible for my own decisions"

That's what my notebooks are like - if you were to find one and read it you'd start looking for the secret decoder ring or think you'd just discovered my second job as a fortune cookie writer. (In fact, that one above works because, as you know, when you read a fortune cookie, you're supposed to add the words 'in bed' to the end. Try it. It works every time.)

So, I'm staring at this note trying to remember what past me was trying to tell future me and I decided that as I couldn't do that, I'd go to Target. Now, I love Target because it's clean and nice and the people there don't smell. It's also laid out to give you some space where you can ponder as people do - you know, hold something up and stand back a couple feet like the extra distance is offering you some fresh perspective on linens that you can't get simply by holding them.

So, I'm standing in Target, holding various items at a distance from my body usually reserved for taking out used diapers, and just looking at stuff. What stuff isn't terribly important because I didn't actually buy anything and the reason I didn't is because I realized what the note meant.

I was looking at towels, considering whether or not to buy a couple more so I could maybe push off laundry to an every-other week chore instead of once a week. And, as you know, I've taken to talking to myself (which people in Target still generally frown upon) and my conversation was pretty mundane ... which one do i like better. "Well, the red one is nice and fluffy and would feel nice and probably be good for just laying on the floor like a rug. The green one is big though and could probably serve duty as a car seat cover if pressed. hmmmm...."

Well, and here it is, I decided I liked the red one. So almost without thinking I immediately put it back on the shelf and started walking toward the registers with the green one.

I took about three steps and then, BAM! What the Hell just happened there?

It's called conditioning. Pavlov's dogs could tell you all about it. I realize that I am conditioned to shop with the Shadow who takes great pains to gather my input on things like which paint colors I like, and which plates I think look nice etc.

As she has never, in 20 years of marriage, actually said the words, "that's a great choice," I'm resigned to the fact that she sees me as a kind of taste geiger counter. If faced with a dilemma in which she thinks she may choose incorrectly (and therefore loose her woman card) she asks me - knowing that I'll make the inappropriate choice. One day, if the Shadow and I are cowering under a table with a briefcase bomb facing us, timer ticking, and a red wire/blue wire choice to make, she'll  ask me which wire to cut - and then snip the other one. I don't even question it any more.

So, in the end, I didn't buy any towels at all. I put the green towel back on the shelf, and to prevent my man card from spontaneously igniting in my wallet, I scrunched it all up and shoved it in the middle of a stack of pink ones, and hearted by this act, walked away.

When I got back to BOB I realized I had made the right choice .... the green definitely would have worked better with the colors in the apartment.

Damn.