Decisions, Decisions.

During my freshman year of college I was astounded by the numerous opportunities available for students. The clubs, parties, jobs, friends. There were so many decisions to make. So rather than actually make any, I just accepted everything the college had to offer. I not only carried more than a full load of classes working toward three majors, but I signed up to be a member of numerous clubs, officers in some, and one I even started myself. I worked two on-campus jobs and had my eyes set on studying abroad my junior year. Then, as I can't adequately express the influence Felicity had on me, I decided to turn in an application to be a resident advisor in the dorms. 

I was surprised and energized by the extremely rigorous interview process to become an RA. I sat in a room with all the current RAs, the hall directors and the Director of Housing. I was questioned for hours. Gave solutions to the hypothetical scenarios they provided. Ran through sets of tires. Did pushups in the rain. 

Then all the RAs sat around me in a circle and told me what my life would really be like as a resident advisor. The hours, the weekends, student suicide attempts and eating disorders, kicking boys out after curfew and cleaning up some truly disgusting messes. Exactly what Noel so beautifully portrayed.

I was offered a position two days later. Knowing what a true honor it was, I naturally planned on accepting it. But instead of calling my parents or my sister, to share the news as I normally do, I called my brother. He listened quietly while I told him all about the interview process, and the exclusivity of being offered a position, how great it would look on a resume, and how truly excited I was about it. When I was finished he said only this: "Just leave time to enjoy college."

After I hung up the phone with him, I immediately called the Hall Director and turned down the job. My brother had released me. And I'm so glad he did.

Because I had a blast in college.

Decisions are a necessary part of life. Sometimes they are easy (yes, I'll have another glass of wine), sometimes they are fun (let's paint the room apple green), sometimes they are difficult (should I leave my job to take another), sometimes they are painful (do I really need my gallbladder removed) and sometimes they are avoided at all costs (when do we try for that second baby).

But I take pride in my decisiveness. My sister will come over almost in tears with a pile of tile samples saying she just can't pick one. I knock that decision out in seconds. I'll shop with a friend who can't decide between the black dress or the purple one, and I'm unable to relate. I have no problem deciding what I want to eat, what I want to wear to an event, whom I want to be friends with, what I believe in politically, whom I wanted to marry, what place settings I wanted to register for and when I was ready for a baby. And I can pick paint colors for a room like a son of a bitch.

But being able to make decisions easily doesn't necessarily mean I make the right decisions.  Or that I've really had to make any extremely tough decisions. There are certainly those decisions that I've made easily and have never second guessed (getting married, our place settings), but I can't tell you how many times we've repainted the house, or how often I change my hair color.

As of right now, there are two major life decisions keeping the wine flowing freely around here. 1) Buying a home and 2) Getting a PhD. These two decisions are coming to a head at the same time in my life; we move into our new home three days after I defend my dissertation.

We just recently bought our first home together. We looked for a couple of months, but the minute I laid eyes on the house we eventually purchased, I knew it was the one for us. We toured it three times, even bringing in a contractor for feedback. I did endless research on the property. We were able to get the house for well below asking price. The house was then appraised for well above what we paid. After the inspection process declared the house not only safe and sound, but in astoundingly great condition, I even felt a bit smug.

After the closing, we took the keys to our new home--with a bottle of champagne--ready to bask in the greatest decision we'd ever made together. But the moment we stepped through the door, I panicked. The house seemed cramped and creaky and old. Was that electrical outlet always missing a faceplate? Was that crown moulding always cracked? Who the hell picked these colors? I watched my husband run around the house like it was Christmas, while I choked back vomit. It seemed we had made a horrible decision. One we couldn't take back. At least not in this market.

Turns out, according to WebMD, I was experiencing a classic case of something called "buyer's remorse." The symptoms subsided, as the message boards predicted, within a matter of days. Once we got paint on the walls and some of our furniture moved in, I found myself hugging the walls and sighing contentedly.


Deciding to pursue a doctorate was certainly not without grounds. I had been researching for the University for two years while pursuing my master's degree, when my advisor came to me and suggested I stay on and get my PhD. He said he would extend my assistantship, thereby funding my degree. He argued that the research I'd been doing the past few years was dissertation quality, so the transition would be painless. (It's clear to me now that no transition in life is "painless." And no house is "move-in ready.")

I blew this off.

For months he kept mentioning it. My husband thought it was a brilliant idea, even understanding we'd go four more years on his income alone. My parents thought it sounded like a great idea, and my colleagues were encouraging.

But I shrugged it off for a few more months.

And then one morning, after getting out of the shower, I ran to find Jim and exclaimed that I not only wanted to get the degree, I had to. I was never more sure of anything.

And I never looked back.

Until now.

One week before I defend my 228 page dissertation.
One week before it's all over.

And I'm having a recurrence of buyer's remorse.

At the center of my core I am extremely ambitious. That ambition, however, is surrounded by a  somewhat haphazard, even flighty personality. That combination means that ideas flow freely and without intention, but they are all pursued with vigor regardless. So as I near the end of my PhD I can't help but wonder if it was simply another harebrained idea that got away from me. One I was never released from. What happened that day in the shower that convinced me I had to do this? Was this PhD a passing thought I had one day, and then pursued it without question? And now that I'm through it, now that the decision is sticking, what exactly am I stuck with?

A career?

My advisor has always been upfront with me about how the only reason to pursue a PhD is to remain in academics. You can teach undergraduates with just a master's degree. And a doctorate means nothing in the working world. I heard him say it over and over and never once did that bother me until now.

One week before it's all over.

Does this mean the PhD was a bad decision? I don't think you can truly regret something you are proud of. It has helped me develop skills and gain knowledge and even make a little money. And honestly, with the exception of the immense pressure and stress, I very much enjoyed (and am tremendously grateful for) the challenge.

But for the past few months I've lied awake wondering a couple of things. One, would Costal Fog look good in the entryway of the new house, and Two, was the degree worth it? Were the sacrifices my husband made to put me through school worth it? Were the long nights, exhausting commutes, hours of course work, hundreds of pages of rewrites, and debilitating insecurity worth it? And does this one decision I made, at the age of 26, somehow the end of all my career decisions? Am I locked into something I can't get out of? Like a 30-year mortgage?

I enjoy what I do and what I've studied for the past 7 years. And I feel a little like a spoiled child on her birthday, quickly opening one present only to immediately demand the next. I suppose that's what bothers me the most. That I can't be satisfied. By this. Or anything. There's just so much more I'd like to do. Build a birdhouse. Start a nonprofit. Write a best-selling novel. Take a nap.

And keep on making a million decisions, big and small. Good and bad. Fleeting and lasting.

Was marrying my husband a good decision? You betcha. Was having a baby a good decision? Hell yes. Was the new house a good decision? Seems so. Was earning a PhD a good decision?

We'll see.

But I take comfort in a night out I had a month ago. Two of my college friends came to visit. Both were RAs in college, and one was actually my resident advisor during my freshman year. Though we hadn't seen each other since college, we immediately fell back into our old rhythm, talking and drinking late into the night. Though much of our conversation surrounded some of our most recent decisions--our marriages and motherhood--we did slip back into the years we spent in college. Because they were both RAs, much of their experience surrounded the time they shared with other resident advisors. Counseling freshmen, Spring Break vacations, parties and float trips. In that moment in the bar, listening to them recount their experiences, I realized something I never knew before:

My RA had a blast in college.