Forcing It Will Just Make It Chafe

TODAY IS THE LAST DAY TO ENTER THE CONTEST for a $25 gift certificate! Make me laugh.

When I was in group therapy (hereafter known as IOP, for Intensive Outpatient Therapy), we did art therapy on a routine basis. A collage was the order of the day, so eight magazines were strewn about the floor, one mag for each patient.

“Choose one to use for your collage,” the therapist said.

Now, there were no rules associated with that. No choosing ORDER. You see a magazine you want? Bend down and grab it.

As is often the case, I have a tough time when I’m given more than a few choices. Those White Elephant Christmas gift exchange thingies? Maddening.

I remember for my 10th or 11th birthday my Uncle Giac (pronounced Jack, but in Eyetalian) took me to KayBee Toys in the mall and said I could have anything in the store for $20 or under. Holy Mindblower, Batman!

We spent nearly two fucking hours in that store before Uncle Giac said, “That’s it. PICK something!” I chose the Bruce Jenner Decathlon Game, in case you were wondering. What? I also had the Welcome Back, Kotter Game, where the goal was to collect cards that, put together, spelled “Up Your Nose With A Rubber Hose.”

So I’m sitting there, staring at the tableaux of glossy covers before me. Ladies Home Journal. National Geographic. Budget Travel. Weasel Fancy.

Which magazine do you think I took? I don’t remember the title, but I do know that it was the very last mag on the floor.

“What magazine did you choose, Karl?” she asked.

“Don’t know that ‘choose‘ is the word,” I replied.

“Not making a choice is still a choice.”

Everyone quit looking through their magazines and stared at the therapist. Me, I mulled that whopper over in my noggin. The ramifications of that statement were astounding to me.

Wait a second now. My procrastinating on making a decision – until it’s too late and there’s only one option left – is still a CHOICE? Fuuuuuck.

A forced choice, they call it. You’re forced to choose the only remaining item because you waited too long.

My entire life I’ve been doing that. I’m better about it now than I was then, but still, it happens regularly.

The mechanics BEHIND me making the forced choice are not all that difficult to surmise. I’m not worthy. I don’t deserve the choice to begin with. That’s not to say that a staggering number of options isn’t difficult for me to ponder; a restaurant menu is rough for me. But the essence behind the forced choice for me is that I deserve the leftovers.

And hell, I should be grateful for those.

Growing up, I was always small for my age. Wore glasses from 18 months (yes, months). Asthma. Braces, retainers, headgear (in school).

And in gym class for Dodgeball? Where there are two team captains and they choose teammates, going back and forth between the two teams?

I was always dead last to be picked. I was the forced choice. Time and time again. Not a feeling I’d wish on my worst enemy.

To be honest, I still feel that way more than you’d think. I still don’t feel worthy of options. I still think leftovers are all I should get. The forced choice.

Which is exactly the opposite of Harley.

Angel’s dog Harley was NOT a forced choice at all. He was chosen specifically because that’s who Angel and her family fell in love with, and also because he chose HER and her family. Out of the many options in that shelter, Harley was the dog they chose.

Which is why I think adopted children are so special. You didn’t just HAVE them, you CHOSE them.

I’m glad I got to meet Harley in his very short stay with Angel. Him departing while we were in Destin was heart-wrenching. But only because the love for him was so strong.