Or How to Turn Three Simple Choices into a Full-Time Investigation
It started with three pieces of paper, a perfectly reasonable question, and a cup of coffee that was rapidly losing the will to live. I had placed the papers on the table, each marked with a letter — A, B, and C — and was studying them with the kind of optimism that comes from believing a decision can actually be made before lunch. Fred sat across from me, resting his chin in his hand, staring at the choices as though one of them might suddenly confess to something. His notebook, What We Know (So Far), lay beside his coffee mug, which proudly announced that he was still processing. Considering how much time Fred spends processing, I’m beginning to suspect the mug isn’t describing his mental activity so much as issuing a permanent status report.
The decision itself wasn’t particularly complicated. We had three possibilities, each with its own advantages and disadvantages, and enough information to make a reasonable choice. Nothing irreversible, nothing life-threatening, and certainly nothing requiring a congressional hearing. Still, I knew better than to underestimate Fred’s ability to turn an ordinary Tuesday into an administrative emergency. He had been suspiciously quiet since I laid the papers down, and experience had taught me that a quiet Fred was rarely an indication of inner peace. More often, it meant he was assembling a list of objections that would require their own filing cabinet.
“Which one do you think we should choose?” I asked, sliding the papers toward him. Fred studied them for a moment, shifting his gaze from A to B, then from B to C, before returning to A as though it might have changed while he wasn’t looking. Finally, he sighed and admitted that he didn’t know. I shrugged and told him neither did I, which seemed like a perfectly acceptable starting point for a conversation. Apparently, Fred disagreed. His eyebrows shot upward, his shoulders stiffened, and he looked at me with the alarmed expression of a man who had just discovered the airplane pilot was consulting a beginner’s guide to aviation.
“Then we need more information,” he announced, sitting upright with renewed purpose. There it was. The familiar sparkle in his eyes, the sudden certainty in his voice, and the unmistakable relief of having found something to do that didn’t involve making an actual decision. Fred loves information. He collects it, organizes it, compares it, questions it, and occasionally creates additional categories so he can reorganize it all over again. Give him three choices and he’ll want a spreadsheet. Give him a spreadsheet and he’ll want independent verification. Give him independent verification and he’ll start wondering whether the verification process itself has been adequately verified.
I looked at him over the rim of my coffee mug. “We have all the information, Fred.” He blinked, clearly offended by the suggestion that his research department might have completed its assignment. I pointed toward the papers and reminded him that we’d already examined the possibilities, considered the consequences, discussed the costs, and identified what mattered most. We’d even revisited the options after he insisted we might have overlooked something. That particular exercise had produced exactly one new discovery: Fred was exceptionally talented at asking the same question in seventeen different ways.
He glanced down at his notebook, then back at the papers, searching for a loophole. I could practically hear the gears turning. If more information wasn’t available, perhaps there was another reason to delay. His expression slowly changed as the solution arrived, and I recognized that look immediately. It was the same one he wore whenever he found a perfectly respectable excuse to avoid something uncomfortable. “Oh,” he said, leaning back and placing both hands behind his head. “Then we need more time.”
I couldn’t help laughing. Of course we did. Fred had successfully moved from an information shortage to a scheduling crisis without leaving his chair. It was an impressive maneuver, really, especially considering neither problem actually existed. The papers were still sitting in front of us, the options hadn’t changed, and no mysterious new circumstances had appeared. Yet Fred looked enormously pleased with himself, as though he’d just saved us from a catastrophic mistake. Somewhere in his internal filing system, I imagined a folder labeled Potential Disasters Successfully Avoided, containing thousands of decisions we’d never actually made.
There was a time when I wouldn’t have found any of this particularly funny. In fact, there was a time when Fred wouldn’t have been sitting across the table from me at all. He would have been running the meeting, making the decisions, and convincing me that every unanswered question was a perfectly legitimate reason to wait. Of course, I didn’t know him as Fred back then. I didn’t even recognize that there was a distinction between my awareness and the protective thoughts constantly offering their opinions. I simply assumed that was how my mind worked, and because those thoughts sounded so reasonable, I believed them. His concerns became my concerns, his predictions became my expectations, and his hesitation often determined what I did next. I thought I was being careful, responsible, and thorough, when sometimes I was simply allowing uncertainty to make my decisions for me.
Looking back, I can see how easily I confused preparation with progress. There was something reassuring about examining every possibility, anticipating every outcome, and preparing for every conceivable complication. It felt intelligent, even responsible. Surely, the more thoroughly I investigated something, the better equipped I’d be to handle whatever happened next. Except there was always another question, another possibility, another tiny detail that might matter. The finish line kept moving, and I kept chasing it without realizing that Fred was the one continually relocating it. Sometimes decisions remained unfinished for days, sometimes for months, and occasionally opportunities passed altogether while I was still trying to determine whether I had enough information to pursue them.
What eventually changed wasn’t that my mind stopped producing concerns. Fred certainly hasn’t retired, as today’s little performance clearly demonstrates. What changed was that I began paying attention to the patterns behind those concerns. I became curious about why certain situations triggered so much hesitation, why unfamiliar possibilities immediately produced objections, and why my mind seemed far more comfortable preparing for life than actually experiencing it. I started recognizing that many of my automatic reactions weren’t necessarily responses to what was happening in the present. They were responses shaped by what I’d learned, experienced, believed, and accepted along the way. My mind was comparing today’s possibilities with yesterday’s information, often without considering whether that information was still relevant.
Eventually, I came to understand that this protective part of my mind wasn’t trying to sabotage me. He was trying to keep me safe, using whatever reference material he’d collected throughout my life. Some of it was useful, some of it was outdated, and some of it had been filed under Absolute Truth when it probably belonged in a folder labeled Things We Assumed at the Time. Giving that part of my mind a name and a personality helped me recognize his familiar patterns without automatically becoming entangled in them. Fred became someone I could observe, question, and even laugh with, rather than an invisible authority whose every opinion required immediate obedience. It didn’t make his concerns disappear, but it changed how I responded to them.
And that is why I can sit across from him today, watching him attempt to postpone a perfectly ordinary decision, and find the whole thing entertaining. I understand what he’s trying to accomplish. His entire understanding of safety has been built around what is known, predictable, and familiar. If something worked yesterday, he sees no compelling reason to risk doing it differently tomorrow. If a decision carries uncertainty, he assumes the uncertainty itself must be a warning. And if he can delay long enough, perhaps the uncomfortable possibility of making the wrong choice will simply disappear. Unfortunately, decisions don’t usually evaporate because we ignore them. They tend to remain exactly where we left them, sometimes gathering a little dust and occasionally bringing friends.
The trouble is that certainty is a rather unreliable guest. It rarely arrives when invited, almost never stays as long as we’d like, and has a terrible habit of disappearing the moment life gets interesting. We can gather facts, seek advice, weigh consequences, and make thoughtful plans, but we cannot know everything that will happen afterward. There will always be variables we haven’t considered, circumstances we cannot control, and outcomes that refuse to follow the carefully organized instructions in Fred’s notebook. At some point, making a choice requires trusting ourselves to respond to what happens next, rather than demanding advance guarantees that nothing unexpected will happen.
I glanced at Fred, who was now thoughtfully examining the ceiling, apparently calculating how much additional time might qualify as sufficient. “Fred,” I said, “what exactly are we waiting for?” He lowered his arms and considered the question with genuine seriousness. For a moment, I thought he might produce another elaborate explanation involving research, risk assessment, and the importance of proper preparation. Instead, he looked at the papers, frowned slightly, and admitted that he wasn’t entirely sure. It was such an unexpectedly honest answer that I almost applauded. There was my Fred, momentarily stepping out from behind his clipboard and discovering that perhaps the problem wasn’t a lack of information after all.
“Maybe,” I suggested, “we’re waiting to feel certain about something that doesn’t come with certainty.” He didn’t respond immediately. He simply looked at the three choices, then at his notebook, as though comparing two entirely different ways of approaching the world. I could see the familiar resistance in his expression, but there was curiosity there too. Fred doesn’t particularly enjoy having his assumptions questioned, although he’s become considerably better at tolerating it. These days, he sometimes manages to consider a new perspective without immediately requesting an emergency meeting.
We sat quietly for a moment, and I realized how different the situation felt compared with the way things used to be. Years ago, I might have interpreted his hesitation as proof that something was wrong with the decision. I might have gone searching for additional information, asked another person’s opinion, or postponed the whole thing until I felt more confident. And if that confidence never arrived, I might have blamed myself for being indecisive, not realizing that I was waiting for a feeling of certainty that no amount of research could guarantee. Today, I could recognize the hesitation for what it was without turning it into a personal failing or an instruction I had to follow.
Fred isn’t the enemy, and he never has been. He is doing exactly what he’d learned to do: protect us from uncertainty by encouraging us to remain where things felt manageable. There was no need to argue with him, silence him, or prove that his concerns were ridiculous. I could acknowledge what he was trying to accomplish without handing him control of the decision. His observations were welcome, his experience was useful, and his concerns deserved consideration. But somewhere along the way, he’d confused being an advisor with being the final authority. Understanding that distinction had given both of us a little more breathing room. Fred could continue doing what he does best, and I could decide which of his suggestions were actually helpful.
I picked up the papers again and studied the options. They were still imperfect, still carried a little uncertainty, and still required a choice. Nothing magical had happened during our conversation. No additional information had appeared, no guarantee had been delivered, and Fred hadn’t suddenly become an enthusiastic supporter of the unknown. What had changed was my willingness to make a decision without waiting for his complete approval. I looked at him and smiled. “I think we have enough to choose.”
Fred reached instinctively for his notebook, then hesitated. His fingers rested on the cover for a moment before he slowly withdrew his hand. “Well,” he said, “I suppose we could always adjust if it doesn’t work out.” I stared at him, genuinely impressed. It wasn’t exactly a declaration of fearless adventure, but coming from a man who considers a minor change in routine an invitation to chaos, it was practically a philosophical revolution.
“Exactly,” I said, reaching for option B. Fred watched carefully as I moved the paper toward me, and I could tell he was still running calculations somewhere behind those expressive eyebrows. He wasn’t entirely comfortable, but he wasn’t reaching for an emergency exit either. For once, we were making a decision together without requiring absolute certainty, a comprehensive contingency plan, or a signed affidavit from the universe promising favorable results.
Naturally, just as I was about to settle the matter, Fred leaned forward with a thoughtful expression. “One question,” he said. I raised an eyebrow, and he quickly added, “A small one.” I waited. He glanced at option B, then at the other two papers, and asked whether we should perhaps sleep on it before committing.
I took another sip of my now thoroughly cold coffee and smiled. Some habits take a little longer to change.
“Fred,” I said, “it’s a lunch order.”
He looked down at the three menus, considered the implications, and quietly reached for his notebook. “Well, in that case, we really should check the reviews.”
And there he was again. My wonderfully predictable, occasionally exhausting, perpetually concerned Mr. Fred Finite, doing his absolute best with what he knows so far. I couldn’t help smiling as I pushed the menus aside and reached for my phone to place the order. There was a time when I might have agreed with him, spent another twenty minutes comparing ratings, and eventually decided I wasn’t hungry anymore. Today, I could appreciate his dedication to avoiding a disappointing sandwich without allowing him to turn lunch into a lifelong research project.
Sometimes, the next step doesn’t require more information or more time. Sometimes, it simply requires recognizing that we’ve gathered enough to make a thoughtful choice, even when we cannot know exactly how everything will turn out. And if we discover something new along the way, we can always adjust. That doesn’t mean ignoring genuine concerns or making reckless decisions. It means understanding the difference between useful caution and familiar hesitation, between preparing for possibilities and becoming trapped in them.
Fred may not love that arrangement, but he’s learning. So am I. The difference is that these days, I know I don’t have to believe every thought that wanders into the room carrying a clipboard.
Besides, lunch was getting cold, and one of us had to be the responsible adult.
Shift happens… even when Fred requests an extension.