A Case of the Hiccups

As a senior in high school, once I had narrowed down my college choices to two or three and had to choose, I did not feel the late-night panic that seemed to turn many of my peers into drowsy, jittery creatures in first period. It was a big decision. I made pro and con lists, talked endlessly with my mother. But I felt a strong certainty in my diaphragm-- which sits horizontal in your torso, which I have always imagined to be like a tabletop for your lungs and heart-- that the college experience that would bloom from any choice I make would be fascinating and probably beautiful.

I could go to Lewis and Clark, and a few months later I could see myself saying, “I made the right decision.” I could go to Sarah Lawrence, and the same words would probably come out of my mouth. I chose Hampshire, and I am sure that those words did come out of my mouth. Yes, I had an angsty third semester where I considered transferring, but who's to say that would not have happened anywhere else? I might have even had a bad experience in college, but I realized it was equally likely to happen at any of those colleges.

I took comfort in knowing that we humans will never know “what could have been.” When I went to Hampshire, I had no alternate reality at another school to compare it to., no certainty that another option actually would have been better.

Humans regret decisions. But we regret decisions because of the outcome, not because we are missing what would have happened instead had we not made it. Even though we may feel that we know, we can not know the alternate outcome. Understanding this limitation has saved me from regret nine times out of ten. It calms me down, it frees me up.

I am sitting in my cubbyhole bedroom in New York City on a cloudy morning, thirty minutes before I need to leave for work, batting around a question that I have been seriously hitting at since January: When my housing and my job halts in August, where should I go?

In January, I asked, “What if I moved to Colorado?” and I knew “I will either move to Colorado or Washington D.C.”

In February, I asked, “What if I stay in New York?” and I knew “I will either stay here or move to D.C.”

Since then, I have fantasized about countless what might be scenarios as I bounce between NYC and DC. Struggling with uncertainty, in April I made a decision: if I do not have a job by August, I will move to D.C., and start there. I felt great about this for approximately three weeks.

Then, May hit. Old relationships solidified and new ones appeared, the summer sun came out, and I realized how much of a life I have finally, finally built here in New York. All year I have been wanting something like this, and I've got it now, for the final two months. I am terrified because my decision is no longer made-- in fact, I don't want to make a decision I have to, on August 17^th, when all of my belongings are packed up and need to go somewhere.

My diaphragm is still holding up my heart, but it is hiccuping a little. After so many moves from state to state, community to community, will it always be just as good or just as bad to move as it might be to stay?