Business Traveller India – August 2019

(Ron) #1

MY BIGGEST FEAR


four writerssharethething that makes


them quiverintheirboots.


By


Caro


Cooper






Tell me your biggest fear. The


request from frankie’s editor came


like a threat. Little did she know


her simple, if somewhat unsettling


request had thrown me right


into my biggest fear: choosing.


I listed what I consider to be my


top-tier fears: irrelevance – ending


up just another cog in this cycle of


Earth’s life. Being trapped – in the


wrong relationship, job, life, path,


lunch. And finally, making the


wrong choice, from the small to the


big decisions. Looking at the list,


it became apparent the first two


were just examples of the last. It’s


all about making the wrong choice.


It’s probably no surprise that this


is my biggest fear – I’m a white,


middle-class Australian woman


with an education and the luxury


of choice. Too much choice. For


those with less than me, my fear


might seem like the ultimate


gift. I’m spoilt and I acknowledge


that, but that perspective


doesn’t ease my decision-making


meltdowns when every choice


seems a catastrophic curse.


People speak of option paralysis;


mine is more a lurching option


convulsion. I throw myself from


yes to no,fromgotostop,reeling
aroundlikeacontemporarydancer.
Simpledecisionscantakemedays,
and arefraughtwithanxious
hand-wringing.I’mpermanently
aware oftheButterflyEffectof
my minorchoices.Declinethis
invitation,neverbeinvitedagain,
die alone.It’sallconnected.

I take smallchoicesoutofmylife
where Ican.Isticktoroutines
and schedules,packmylunch
and wearaself-imposeduniform
of jeans,blackt-shirtandapair
of raggedsocks.Idon’thavea
uniforminaneccentricgenius
kind ofway,clearly.It’smore
akin toaschooluniform,designed
for parentswhowouldhaveto
navigatenuclearmeltdownseach
morningifchildrenhadchoices.
Like thosekids,iffacedwith
choice Iwouldleavethehouse
in a hystericalstate,dressedin
layers ofmismatchedclothing.

But it’sthebigstuffthatgets
me, too.Ispentayearfuriously
hyperventilatingwhiletrying to
decide whichunidegreetoenrol
in, becausehowcana17-year-old
who hasbarelyventuredbeyond
her suburbanQueenslandbackyard
know whatshewantstocommit to
for life?AndstillIchosepoorly,
furthersolidifyingmybeliefthat
I cannotbetrustedwithdecisions.

Historyisdarkenedwithexamples
of peoplewhomadethewrong
choices–choicesthatseemedso
right atthetime.Thedoctors

who prescribed thalidomide
for morning sickness; choosing
hydrogen for the Hindenburg
airship; Napoleon’s invasion of
Russia. They all thought they were
making the right choice; they were
convinced of it, enough to risk their
jobs and the lives of others. They
might as well have tossed a coin or
used Eeny, Meeny, Miny, Moe. Their
company does not reassure me.

All my fears – probably all of our
collective fears – are at their core a
fear of death. Of not making enough
of the time we have on this planet;
of not having a positive impact; of
not being able to somehow cling to
life in death by being remembered.
To give up on this hope of eternal
life and enjoy the freedom of
not caring – imagine that? Yes,
suffering is real and the days
feel long, but if you’re not curing
disease or saving the environment,
why not just abandon clinging to
careers and goals, clothes and toxic
relationships, hard work and the
hope of being remembered when
you’re dust? (Don’t look at me for
answers, I’m just spit-balling here.)

There are two ways I could look
at my fear of making the wrong
choice. I could see it as a sign
of hope: that I have things to
live for that I value; that there
are things I have to lose. Or I
could see it as a weakness: a
deficiency of assertiveness, of
control and power. There’s just
one very obvious problem: I can’t
decide which one to choose.

writers’ piece
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