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I admit it.

I can’t make up my mind.

About a LOT of things.

Not just a couple things, because that would be easy… or at least it wouldn’t matter so much.

Because a couple indecisions? No problem. Unless, say, it involves nuclear war or skinny jeans: yes or no?

Those are not decisions you just don’t MAKE. There are clear moral directives at play.

Unlike with my hair.

Oh, my hair. SHUT UP ABOUT THE HAIR, MEG. Yet do I? No, I don’t. Because something in me still believes there’s something that can be done to render it… well, less like it is.

My latest thought is that perhaps… well, I will go blonde. Not REAL blonde, mind you, but some caramel and butterscotch highlights over a nice chocolate base.

Did you know my hair was a dessert?

Now you do. Check it out:

Yes, that’s right: I’m thinking hair colour will turn me into Jessica Alba.

(Imagine!)

No, no… I’m not. I’m just thinking of doing something sassy, bright, fun and DIFFERENT. Different from my die-hard, anti-highlight-because-why-do-they-cost-so-much-and-also-that-one-bad-experience brunette stickler ways. Something fun to fit a new era in my life, and an experiment that I can always dye out or grow out or sell to a young boy in exchange for his goat.

What?

But I can’t decide. Who thinks that much about hair colour (who isn’t being paid by a studio to make them shiny moving pictures)?

That’s right. Waffle Girl.

The same girl that can’t choose shoes.

I hate shopping for shoes. I loathe it. I mean, shoes themselves are nice, if not sore-making at their heights and puddle-soaked at their depths.

But who can possibly pick from the millions of possibilities… and who wants to pay approximately ONE MILLION BILLION DOLLARS for one decent pair?

Do I want boots? Uggs? Real or fake? Ballet flats? Real or fake?

(What the hell would a fake ballet flat entail? A copy of the Center Stage DVD?)

And I won’t even get started on my moronic indecision about the right running shoe. JUST BUY SOME AND GET MOVING, MISSY.

But I don’t. I fuss about pronation and supination and arch support and endurance soles and neat $300 shoes that make you feel like you’re running in the sand.

Because my first thought when I put on shoes is generally: do they feel like sand?

You too?

My final area of painful indecision is clothing.

(Yes, basically the appearance trifecta. Stop staring.)

I know what I like, don’t get me wrong. It’s just that choosing the right pieces — lasting, classic, elegant, prone to stretch over my ass in a flattering way and not like a Christos installation — is tough on a reasonable budget. Or an unreasonable one. Which mine might be to someone who spends more, but a veritable fortune if you spend less.

I’m a jeans/cute shirt/good shoe/nice handbag girl like, OH, EVERYONE ELSE, but there are so many variables at play.

So, instead of choosing, I just keep putting it off until I fritter all my money away on random $7 sale item t-shirts that fall apart in two washings. Sometimes when I’m wearing them!

If you asked me what looked good on you, I could tell you.

I’ve shopped for many of my friends, with great success.

When I’m standing back three feet, it just seems clear to me exactly what the right look should be, and exactly what it will take to get there.

I just can’t do it for me. And I know it’s bigger than money and too much selection and a moral objection to handing over my right leg for a cute pair of red heels (now that would be ironic, Alanis!)

It’s an essential discomfort with ME. With how I look. With how I move. With how people have seen me over the years and how that has made me feel.

Because I can’t solve those things quickly, I flop between this hairstyle or that and this jean or that and this peeptoe or that in the hope that I’ll magically became okay with myself along the way. That there’s a formula to crack. A balance to achieve with the externals that puts the internal at ease.

I know nothing in life actually happens that way, but it’s easy to distract yourself from reality with waffles.

And we all know what THEY do for the fit of your pants.

Sigh.

Pass the syrup.