I hate making choices. I always prefer it when someone makes a choice for me. This hatred is extended to subjects as simple as choosing what meal I want to eat. I cannot count the times that I have sat down at a restaurant, looked at the menu and then asked whoever I am eating with what it is that I want to eat. This is simply because I hate choosing something. What if I make the wrong choice? What if I choose the beef when the chicken was better? Then I will torment myself for hours wondering why I chose the beef instead. I would far rather have someone tell me to get the beef - that takes the choice out of my hands and it will no longer matter if the chicken is better: it was not my choice to make!
Most of the time this hatred only extends to simple subjects - subjects that do not have life-altering implications. For example, I wanted to choose my majors at university - that wasn't up to anyone else. In the same way, I was happy to choose to go to Korea - it was something that had been decided on long before I was merely following through with an earlier choice. However, I was recently faced with a more important choice that was not so easy to make.
This week, I have been car-shopping. I have been thumbing through Car Magazines, checking them out on the roads and even test-driving them. In the end, my decision came down to two cars:
the Ford Figo or the Volkswagen 
Polo Vivo. Though the basic Vivo is cheaper than the Figo, when you add on the bits and pieces they are around the same price (by bits and pieces I mean power-steering, ABS brakes, air conditioning, radio and alarm). The differences in the ways that they drive cancel each other out: the Figo is quieter, but has to be revved higher; the Vivo is louder but doesn't need to be revved as high; the Vivo can go 2km/hour faster, but the Figo's brakes are 2 seconds faster. After test-driving them both, I was at a loss. Choosing between the two was like choosing a pastry at a patisserie - they all look good, they all taste good, they're all going to have ridiculous numbers of calories; it just comes down to personal taste. And in this case, I couldn't for the life of me decide which one I wanted. I liked the look of the Figo, but, for a reason I couldn't explain, the Vivo seemed like the more sensible choice. I hmmed and haa'd, going back and forth between the two over and over, eventually phoning Grant to discuss the situation. And it was during this conversation that I really realised which one I wanted. As soon as Grant uttered the words "I think you should get the Vivo", I immediately started fighting him on it, spouting the virtues of the Figo for all to hear. This, I decided, could only mean one thing - my mind had made itself up.And so, despite my dad's teasing (I hope) and jokes that he wants to sell me his Volvo station wagon instead (my mom couldn't even keep a straight face for that one), I believe that in the next two weeks I will be coming home with a brand spanking new, Chill coloured (you don't want to know how long that decision took) Ford Figo. Expect pics.
