What do you do when the Universe gives you too many options?
As I feel myself beginning to freeze—the onset of analysis paralysis’ impending doom setting in—I have a moment of thought that holds back the surf. As if the breath of God parted the Red Sea before me, providing me the path forward and away from the danger…
What if this is a moment to practice radical acceptance?
Am I being selfish and self-centered by not taking proactive measures? Or should I simply be grateful for the multiple paths the Universe has bestowed upon me, learning what I can from and about each while allowing them to converge until one naturally trails off without me?
At the moment, I find myself torn between two men and two drastically different paths ripe to unfold, fighting my natural inclination to do what I have always done when life becomes unnecessarily complicated: push away both options and run.
So, in essence, am I choosing myself instead?
Am I finally allowing each man to make his own decisions about what is best for him instead of making those decisions on his behalf because I am terrified of what might happen if I relinquish control?
I cannot say.
But before we get to the wedding that turned my carefully constructed exit strategy on its head, I should probably explain how the hell I ended up here.
Enter Stage Right: Big Spender
This past weekend, I went to a wedding in New Jersey with Big Spender, fully intending to end things afterward. I simply did not feel the way I knew I should about him. I felt, once again, like a random puzzle piece that someone was trying to forcibly jam into their jigsaw puzzle. Instead of the lulling push and pull of Yin and Yang energies, I was experiencing a frequent cacophony that I found jarring and draining. Though, in his defense, Big Spender might always have the most admirable motivations, the road to Hell is also paved with good intentions.
So while I hate to minimize his true character because there is much to be admired about Big Spender, I have named him such because he reminds me of the song from the 1966 musical Sweet Charity that was later popularized by Peggy Lee:
Hey big spender!
Spend a little time with me
Ironically, Peggy Lee is petitioning for Big Spender to spend a little time with her, while in my situation, Big Spender has been vying for my attention.
What started out as one of an ungodly number of conversations on a dating app that I was on briefly—I became overwhelmed with the interest and deleted my account within a week or two—turned into fevered pursuit by Big Spender, who found me on Facebook and pleaded his case. I forget the particulars, but what really stood out and impressed me was that he bought the entire works of Plato because I had mentioned Plato’s Symposium and he wanted to discuss it with me further. Personally, I had not read Plato’s works in their entirety, so I requested what I needed from the public library because, of course, challenge accepted. I am certainly hyper-conscientious enough never to be caught with my pants down unless it is an arranged affair.
So, the following weekend, Big Spender drove the three and a half hours to Ocean City with roses in hand to meet me.
The minute you walked in the joint
I could see you were a man of distinction,
A real big spender
With his encouragement, I took him for an excellent tasting of delicacies and liquid libations at Oyster & Scales and their sister restaurant, Spain. We had an incredible time, other than the two occasions when he infuriated me so much that I had to abruptly excuse myself to the ladies’ room to keep my temper in check. And that is saying something, considering I have always had quite a long fuse.
Good lookin’, so refined
Say, wouldn’t you like to know what’s going on in my mind?
But I gave him the benefit of the doubt and clarified his intention when I returned to the table, which I am glad I did because, though his intention was pure, his delivery left an abundance to be desired. I was not sure at the time whether he was truly so deaf or whether I was simply still raw and easily triggered—what would become something of a recurring theme—but I decided to continue with our association. I did, however, let him know that I did not think he was the one. That did not necessarily mean, however, that we could not have something special for whatever duration of time it was meant to exist. In fact, some of the most beautiful entanglements are made all the more precious by their destined end, allowing them to burn brightly and without restraint.
So let me get right to the point
I don’t pop my cork for every guy I see
That is an understatement. I rarely make genuine romantic connections, but there was something about Big Spender that intrigued me—something I wanted to explore, understand, and perhaps indulge. His thoughtfulness and old-school gallantry were refreshing, and I could not deny how good it felt to receive the kind of consideration I knew I deserved. So why not play?
Wouldn’t you like to have fun, fun, fun?
How’s about a few laughs, laughs?
I can show you a good time
Let me show you a good time
And so we continued. After all, good luck finding a better Mistress of Fun.
Going Off Book: Shopping Spree Delight, But Make It Nauseating
A few weeks later, I went to New Jersey to visit Big Spender when I had both the opportunity and the need to put Ocean City in my rearview mirror, though I did preface the visit by making it clear that I wanted to keep our relationship firmly in the friendship category. Alas, I was enjoying myself, lines became blurred, and true to my mercurial nature, I changed my mind.
Not that the following was a deciding factor; it was simply something novel enough to me to be noteworthy: Big Spender wanted to treat me to a little retail therapy. This threw me slightly off-kilter because I am not accustomed to that kind of generosity, especially not to the extent that followed. But apparently, I do not receive love well and this became an exercise to actively work on it.
With a lack of forethought and consideration on our part, we arrived just as the boutiques in Spring Lake were closing for the evening, but managed to find one willing to stay open while we perused their wares. Though the style of clothing was not to my typical taste—I would say everything had a more mature Nantucket vibe—I tried on nearly everything in my size: an assortment of dresses, a tweed suit, and a cashmere sweater. I blushed crimson beneath Big Spender’s onslaught of compliments as I modeled each piece for him, and I must underscore that these clothes were practically pieces of art, considering even the T-shirt purchased to wear beneath the suit cost almost $400. At the end, I asked which outfit he liked best. He confirmed all of them before waving his magic credit card with barely a blink.
Now, one thing I should point out: while tickled positively pink, I was struck dumb by what I can only describe as a grand gesture. I understand that our circumstances are very different, but the sheer obscenity of the amount spent made me slightly nauseous. And, of course, the common consensus would be that his motives were obviously to get between my legs and that, by accepting, I was inadvertently setting a price. But that logic does not work with someone like me.
It is impossible to create that kind of imbalance with me because if someone wants to pay me a kindness of their own volition, I will accept it with reverence and gratitude, but that does not mean I suddenly owe them something in return. If anything, such extravagance puts me on guard for precisely that tactic. But gift-giving is one of Big Spender’s primary love languages, and once I understood that his generosity came without expectation, I could be nothing but honored to be its recipient.
As I came to understand it, Big Spender expresses affection through thoughtful, tangible tokens—gifts intended to communicate that the woman he holds in esteem is seen, considered, and appreciated. He reveres femininity and seems to regard his generosity as a form of tribute to the effort a woman makes in embracing it: the carefully chosen outfit, the personal grooming, the countless little artifices involved in presenting oneself with grace and poise. Being a lady takes effort and in his estimation, that effort deserves to be acknowledged. So, while I take care to embrace the role of a lady, he takes equal care to honor it by embodying the gentleman.
Curtain Call
A few weeks later, Big Spender met me in St. Michaels, an extravagant little hidden gem of a waterfront town and an approximately halfway meeting point between the two of us. Though that first visit turned into something of a fiasco because I was certain planning everything at the last minute would be perfectly fine, I was sorely mistaken. We ended up having to drive all the way back to Ocean City to find literally the only available accommodations between St. Michaels and the coast. However, our time in St. Michaels was put to good use, and we discovered the perfect place to reconvene for our next rendezvous: The Inn at Perry Cabin.
The Inn at Perry Cabin was made famous as one of the filming locations for the 2005 movie Wedding Crashers. It is a beautiful luxury resort nestled along the Miles River in St. Michaels, complete with its own private golf course, premier fine-dining restaurant, renowned spa, and pool. During this trip, Big Spender treated me to a facial and massage, followed by yet another shopping excursion. Sadly, I was not in the best frame of mind when I first arrived; however, once Big Spender finally understood where my head was and why, he was gracious enough to take it in stride.
Still, beneath all the beautiful dinners, trips, gifts, spa treatments, and luxury experiences, there remained a problem neither of us could buy our way around.
We kept clashing.
Over the course of the next few weeks, we had a series of phone calls that ended poorly. Then came a Friday night when jealousy and his own personal demons got the better of him after I spent time catching up with a male friend. The following Monday, I called him to see if he was receptive to a phone call and politely asked for an explanation, fully aware that I had surmised his feelings quite well without it. The truth is, I knew the person he was fighting with that night—a fight I refused to be baited into, though successfully hurt my feelings—was a ghost, not me.
So, with the accumulation of these experiences—and now a proven interaction rooted in malicious intent—I could not help but deduce that this was simply not working, that we were not a good fit, and that our union would only engender further toxicity. I have always been acutely aware of the danger that, in men who choose to love me romantically but are not the one, I have a tendency to bring out their worst characteristics.
Therefore, I needed to strategically exit stage left—and immediately. There was only one complication: I had already committed to attending a wedding with him. And, ever the lady of my word, I tucked my reservations neatly into a little box within myself and away I went, back to New Jersey and its promising festivities.
Except the Universe, apparently bored with the simplicity of this storyline, decided what I really needed was the option of a ménage à trois and promptly introduced another character into the plot.
Enter: Dead Poets Society
Unbeknownst to Big Spender, two weeks prior to the wedding—and the day before I left for Charleston—I became friendlier with someone in my boxing class who I found to be quite exceptional. Our friendship developed quickly after Dead Poets Society asked me one night after training if I ever go out. The truthful answer would have been no, but instead I clarified whether his intention in asking was to go out sometime. When he affirmed, I let him know of my imminent plans, but also asked whether he would want to train with me the next day.
So, we trained together at noon the following day, during which he came very close to killing me. Though vomiting was never actually induced, he still felt he owed me a bite to eat that evening after I finished packing. I was genuinely shocked to discover another person—much less a man—with such an affinity for not only books, but literature. At the end of the evening, he said he had a gift for me, and I was completely taken aback when he presented me with a copy of Shakespeare’s Coriolanus and a pair of old aviator Maui Jims that he swore he never wore, having remembered me mention that they were my preferred style of sunglasses. On my way home, I called both my mother and sister, dumbfounded that this entirely unexpected date had turned out to be so pleasantly surprising.
Strike the Stage: Scene Charleston
We will gloss over my trip to Charleston. Long story short, I was there for only three days instead of the intended nine after my departing flight was delayed nearly ten and a half hours, causing me to miss the Shane Gillis show I had been looking forward to for months. From there, the trip devolved into a panic attack I could not shake until I was safely aboard my second flight home. What triggered it was a perfect storm: an interaction with a man that left me rattled, being locked out of the card I was relying on for the trip and consequently left severely financially limited, and an electrical malfunction at the apartment complex that prevented me from freely entering or exiting without the physical assistance of the friend with whom I was staying.
Collectively, I was incredibly disappointed and depressed. I had missed out on a night I had fantasized about for months; I was stuck inside while my friend worked during the day; I did not have the funds to simply go out and do whatever I wanted; I was struggling with PTSD flashbacks; and, above all, I could not keep the pervasive feeling that I was unsafe at bay. Ultimately, I wanted to go home—to my family, my service dog, and my boxing classes—so I bit the bullet and made the best executive decision I could for myself at the time. And to hell with anyone who took issue with it.
It was on my way home that Dead Poets Society reached out and asked if he could pick me up from the airport. I could see no harm in it and was admittedly flattered, so I acquiesced. We proceeded to spend the entire night, well into the wee hours of the morning, talking and getting to know one another better.
And from there, it went zero to sixty.
We developed an almost instantaneous best friendship and, between training together and our newfound affinity for one another’s company, spent an inordinate amount of our free time together over the next ten days. I did not particularly care for the haste of it all, but somehow it felt natural, and I wanted to resist my compulsion to overanalyze it long enough to simply appreciate it for what it was.
There might have even been an element of crisis-forged intimacy between us. A panic attack, in essence, thrusts the body into fight, flight, or freeze, and not only had we spent time together as I was emerging from my first one, but he was also there for me after I accidentally blacked out during my niece and father’s birthday party. Instead of meeting me with judgment, he showed me grace and helped nurse me back to health as I succumbed to a vicious three-day hangover. There is something inherently intimate about allowing someone to witness you at your most vulnerable and discovering that, rather than recoil, they simply take care of you.
Throughout all of this, I was operating entirely in good faith, with neither deception nor cause for contrition. Dead Poets Society was aware that I had an impending wedding date with Big Spender and knew where I stood with everything, though he harbored a sense of foreboding about the trip that I did not share. Alas, his sixth sense proved more discerning than my own.
It was not until I arrived home that he pointed out the delicious irony: Dangerous Beauty (1998), the movie I had shown him before I left, had seemingly foreshadowed the very romantic predicament in which we now found ourselves. While Dead Poets Society had feelings for me, he also understood that I am a creature destined to give my attention to those who need it.
“You… all of you… you who hunger so for what I give, but cannot bear to see such power in a woman.”
Veronica Franco (c. 1546–1591)
In Renaissance Venice, courtesans occupied a fascinating position within society. The most celebrated among them were revered not merely for their beauty, but for their intelligence, wit, charm, education, and accomplishments. They could enjoy degrees of independence and intellectual freedom unavailable to many women of their time. In exchange for companionship and entertainment, powerful and affluent noblemen lavished them with luxury, patronage, and status. Quite often, these women became far more than lovers; they were confidantes, advisors, intellectual companions, muses, and trusted keepers of secrets.
I have always identified with Veronica Franco, and perhaps that was the parallel Dead Poets Society saw in me—which I appreciated more deeply than he may have realized. My capacity for intimacy does not exist solely within the confines of sex or conventional romance. I have always been drawn to people—to their stories, their wounds, their minds—and when someone I care for needs something I am capable of giving, my instinct is to give it.
The difficulty, of course, is explaining to someone who loves you that giving a piece of yourself to another person does not necessarily mean you have taken that piece away from them. Dead Poets Society seemed to understand this instinctively. Whether Big Spender could love me without interpreting that generosity of spirit as a subtraction from what I give him remained a question I was not yet equipped to answer.
Upstaged by Murphy’s Law and Egregious Missteps
Now, for the big reveal and the weekend that changed everything.
On the drive to Manasquan, New Jersey, I seriously questioned whether the Universe was erecting literal road blocks. For most of the drive, I battled a torrential downpour so intense that the windshield wipers were not quick enough to combat it. I could only manage about fifteen miles per hour on a highway with a speed limit of fifty-five. Granted, I was probably a reckless fool for not stopping and waiting it out, considering I could barely discern the traffic lines due to the influx of water. I later learned that a tornado had touched down in Dover—one I had somehow just missed.
Apparently, subtlety was no longer the Universe’s preferred method of communication and this directorial debut needed more character development.
Even when the rain finally abated, Murphy’s Law continued its assault. All I wanted was a coffee and a small snack, but each time I turned off the highway, I found myself thwarted by fate. For the first Dunkin’ Donuts, I drove twenty minutes out of my way only to never find it. The second claimed to be open, and though the lights were on, not a soul was working inside, leading me to suspect an incompetent employee had taken an unsanctioned break—modern incompetence being one of my greatest pet peeves. By the third attempt, I abandoned Dunkin’ altogether and tried my luck with Starbucks.
It was closed.
Finally, I turned off the highway and found a Wawa. Somehow, the food ended up being cold, and I was informed that my coffee would take some time because the woman had just cleaned the machine—but who was I to deny fate its current onslaught against me on this trip?
If not for Dead Poets Society, I would have been outwardly railing against the entire endeavour, but he kept me company in conversation for most of the drive—something Big Spender was not wont to do. I was incredibly grateful, considering what should have been a relatively manageable trek had somehow devolved into an unexpected five-hour plus odyssey. To add insult to injury, I could not achieve any semblance of equilibrium inside the car: the defrosters were necessary to combat the windshield glare from the rain and oncoming traffic, leaving me perpetually oscillating between uncomfortable extremes.
Once I arrived, I informed Big Spender that I was exhausted, wanted nothing more than to take my sleeping pill and crawl into bed, and had only one request: please let me wake up naturally.
SPOILER ALERT! He did not honor that request.
When I awoke and felt his hands on me, I wanted to rage. In retrospect, I understood that it began as an attempt to be sweet, tracing his fingers up and down my skin—which I ordinarily love! But it was also, ultimately, an attempt to turn me on and, therefore, find somewhere to bury his morning wood. I was furious.
The situation was particularly triggering because, while dating, I have used what I call “playing opossum” as an arguably disturbing litmus test for predatory behavior: what does a man do when he believes I am asleep? Does he respect my unconscious body, or does he treat my inability to actively participate as an opportunity? Any man who knowingly attempts to initiate sexual activity with someone he genuinely believes to be asleep immediately sets off every alarm bell I possess. From that point forward, I consider him a potential rapist, deserving of my immediate wrath.
In this instance, regardless of how innocently Big Spender may have intended to initiate intimacy, I had explicitly asked for one thing before falling asleep: let me wake up naturally. He had ignored that boundary, and I was livid.
In a huff, I jumped out of bed and went downstairs to grab a cup of coffee from the espresso machine—excellent purchase!—before taking the dogs outside to sniff around the yard. I forgot to mention that Big Spender had encouraged me to bring Apollo, which meant the world to me.
When he eventually joined me outside, I broached the subject and asked him to consider the situation from my perspective. To his credit, he immediately became remorseful. He acknowledged that I rarely ask anything of him and that, considering I had made precisely one request the night before, it was incredibly rude of him to ignore it.
I swear, I do not know what particular operating system this man is running, but I am relatively certain it did not come factory-installed. Then again, peculiar people have always been my favorite kind. They just come with quirks.
Cue Wedding
At 9:30 AM, I flitted off to The Style Room in Brielle to have my hair done, per the recommendation of Big Spender’s daughter. I knew going in that an ex of Big Spender’s worked there, but that was of no concern to me. It was lovely being pampered for those few hours, though the experience started on a slightly uncomfortable foot.
After checking in, I was asked whose girlfriend I was, as Big Spender had apparently mentioned to his friend, who owns the salon, that I would be coming in. I visibly winced at the word girlfriend, quickly clarifying that we were still getting to know one another.
The receptionist paused.
“You mean Big Spender’s son?”
I responded in the negative.
“But… You just look so youthful,” she stammered by way of explanation.
I smiled politely, fully aware that I do not look my age and, without the added maturity bestowed upon me by makeup that morning, probably looked younger still. I assured her that I was, in fact, thirty-five—and more than grown enough to fuck whoever pleases me.
Though, admittedly, I am closer in age to Big Spender’s children than I am to him…
As anticipated, my stylist and Big Spender’s friend were curious about me, but I let the conversation with them take its unadulterated course. At the end of my appointment, I was pleasantly surprised to learn that the owner had comped both my haircut and updo, though I made sure to tip my stylist well.
I beamed when Big Spender walked into the salon, Sunny and Apollo in tow, ostensibly to say hello to his friend—and, naturally, to give the hens a little more gossip to cluck about.
From there, I accompanied Big Spender on a few errands, during which he magicked yet another bouquet of flowers into existence for my pleasure.
Afterward, we drove to the original family home of his late ex-wife and children, where his children still reside. I did not know what to expect of either the property or my impending interaction with his kids, but I was taken aback on both counts. The home was monstrous, having undergone multiple additions over the years, and I could only imagine that the maintenance of the surrounding flora alone must cost a small fortune.
The house itself was constructed in a sprawling log-cabin style, composed largely of windows and perched high above the Manasquan River. From there, multiple staircases descended toward the water, culminating in an expansive private dock below.
To be honest, my first thought upon meeting the youngest son was, Well, this must be how the stepmom porn origin story begins…
I am unabashed in saying that Big Spender’s children—all in their early twenties—are incredibly beautiful. Thank God I am not typically attracted to younger men, because if Big Spender and I continue down the path we are currently heading, I would otherwise be placing myself in a rather precarious situation. If one of his sons ever tried to put the moves on me, their looks alone might be enough to make me falter. May God have mercy on my soul.
And that is one family complication I have absolutely no interest in manifesting…
“Get back, demon!”
Crosses herself fervently with the rosary and refuses to make eye contact.
After returning to Big Spender’s home, which is something of a beast in its own right—he is a very successful surgeon, after all—I dolled myself up and donned my dress. For the occasion, I had decided upon a deep-cut, red chiffon A-line number paired with nude open-toed pumps, considering I had forgotten the pearl stilettos that would have better complemented my pearl necklace and earrings.
I am self-aware enough to know that I looked like a knockout, despite the fact that no self-respecting woman should wear red to a wedding unless she is prepared to be questioned about whether she has fucked the groom or not.
Oh well.
Let them eat cake—and cluck simultaneously.
Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.
Rhett Butler
The wedding ceremony was blissfully short and delightfully comical, with the groom’s older brother officiating. From there, cocktail hour was a carnival of delicious bites of nearly every variety imaginable, and with my penchant for sampling, I was in Heaven.
I also finally had the pleasure of meeting Big Spender’s daughter, whose acquaintance I was genuinely delighted to make. Although, when Big Spender made the quip that he might just have a baby of his own if his children did not produce one in a timely manner, I felt my jaw drop to the floor and immediately proclaimed, “I like puppies…!”
Why that comment—the boldness of it, the audacity of the audience before whom he made it, its primal nature, or, more specifically, the sudden mental image of him impregnating me—was so incredibly hot, I could not begin to explain. My mouth went dry, my composure briefly abandoned me, and I found myself thoroughly flustered. Suddenly, “I like puppies” was about the most intelligent contribution I was capable of making to the conversation.
After an hour or so, we moved into the ballroom for the wedding reception, where we delighted in the toasts and were regaled with anecdotes about the happy couple. As soon as the first dances concluded, Big Spender eagerly led me onto the dance floor.
While I love to ballroom dance, I have a regrettable tendency to lead, which proved comically problematic for Big Spender. Alas, we danced our hearts out until I eventually suggested that we sneak away for a brief intermission to let the dogs out.
By then, I was completely enthralled by Big Spender’s energy and dance moves and found myself rather relishing the prospect of stealing away for a little privacy…
Though, ironically, the seduction had apparently begun much earlier that afternoon when I found myself inexplicably turned on by his penmanship as I watched him write a card to the bride and groom.
Apparently, beautiful, masculine calligraphy does it for me. Who knew?
Though we made it back out for the after-party, I was dead on my feet for the remainder of the night but nevertheless made a valiant attempt to rally.
Break a Leg: The Wedding Aftermath
I would like to say the rest of the weekend was uneventful; however, my dog decided to Superman off a ten-foot balcony and, by the grace of God, is not only still alive but miraculously walked away merely severely jarred from the impact.
Thank God I was the one who let him out onto the balcony and not Big Spender, so the blame rests solely on my shoulders. I was beside myself, but Big Spender did his best to console me and immediately stepped in to help me care for Apollo.
I am sure it was a combination of a multitude of factors, but I suddenly saw Big Spender in an entirely new light. I am chagrined to admit that I had been wrong about him, and seemingly overnight, feelings I did not know were possible sprouted forth from seeds sown throughout the wedding weekend. When he and his eldest son began discussing a future trip to Portugal, I caught myself imagining being there with them—and was perhaps more startled by how naturally I fit myself into the picture than by the picture itself.
I did not anticipate contending with these feelings and told Dead Poets Society as much when I returned home Sunday evening. Ultimately, my most immediate concern was Apollo and whether he had sustained any internal injuries invisible to the naked eye, but my little trooper had miraculously emerged from his misadventure mostly unscathed. The Pet ER afforded me a few hours’ reprieve, but once Apollo was safely home, I was left with no emergency sufficiently distracting to save me from confronting my own.
Dead Poets Society was adamant that he still wanted the opportunity to fight for me. While flattered, I found myself confused and overwhelmed. When it comes to the people I invite into my life, I want those who simplify and bring order, not those who complicate and invite chaos. I certainly had no desire to find myself in this predicament whatsoever.
That night, I tossed and turned, wrestling with the implications of it all, only finally surrendering to sleep at dawn.
After this weekend, I feel like a fattened calf, blissfully ignorant of the impending slaughter. It makes me wonder whether, to be with Big Spender, I would have to work ceaselessly to counteract his gluttonous influence. He is a man who has worked hard and sacrificed to amass what he has. He is now in the perfect position to reap his rewards and relish the fruits of what he has harvested.
He deserves this.
He has earned it.
But I have not—and therein lies our disconnect.
Perhaps that is part of what makes Dead Poets Society such a viable alternative: we are both still striving. There is something inherently attractive about being beside someone who is also actively pursuing self-improvement rather than resisting the seductive comfort of having already arrived.
But, true to the forever-inquisitive child of my soul, I cannot help but wonder why.
Why send me two such attractive matches when I can ultimately have only one? Is one the Lady in the Red Dress, catching my attention just long enough to distract me from the match of my soul? Or are they both soulmates, each entering my life for a different purpose, while neither necessarily embodies the true essence of the soul counterpart I have been seeking?
Or perhaps I am asking the wrong question entirely.
Perhaps the Universe did not send me two men so that I could correctly identify which one was meant for me. Perhaps it sent me two paths so that I could finally learn I do not have to sprint down either one simply because it appeared before me.
I can stand at the fork.
I can observe.
I can allow Big Spender to decide what is right for Big Spender and Dead Poets Society to decide what is right for Dead Poets Society. I can stop trying to anticipate everyone’s feelings, engineer the ending, or flee before someone else has the opportunity to make a choice that might hurt me.
Maybe that is radical acceptance.
Maybe choosing neither man today is not indecision at all.
Maybe, for once, I am choosing myself.
And because I am not a psychic, that is where my jurisdiction ends.
The rest I will leave in the hands of God.
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