Pick A Seat
Awake through the middle of the night, my mind was flipping back and forth as I tried to reach a decision. It wasn’t a decision that needed to be made at that moment but my brain was telling me otherwise. It came down to “you’re in or you’re out – choose” and of course I didn’t and I’m still wrestling with the decision. And then my brain, at whatever dark hour of the night it was, took me back to being about four years old and how even then I had difficulty making decisions. Wanting to make the “right” one and testing out all the options.
Every August from mid-month to Labour Day, the Canadian National Exhibition runs in Toronto. It was always a treat to spend a day down at “the Ex”. My sister and I would think about and plan for that day from the last day of school where, tucked in with the report card was a free admission ticket. My mother packed us a lunch and after spending much of the morning wandering through the buildings she liked – Better Living and Horticulture specifically, she would buy a “cone” of Honeydew drink with 3 cups, and we’d find a shady spot to sit. My sister and I, impatient for going on the rides, could barely sit long enough to eat before we were begging to keep moving. We still had the Food Building to do but that came at the end of the day as we were heading back to catch the streetcar home.
The Food Building with all that food to sample (our wise mother feeding us before we went in to not be tempted to ask for everything we saw). Margaret’s Donuts were a favourite, and we would head home with boxes of Dubble Bubble gum and a bag of Neilson chocolate bars. Outside along the midway you’d find yourself asking for candy floss – that delicately spun sugar that came in either pink or blue and stuck to everything because once you tried it with your mouth, it was all over your face and if you had longer hair, it gummed itself in there too. So, you’d switch to your fingers which as sticky as they became you wiped off on your special dress – because going to the Ex meant getting dressed up in those days. Maybe you had a bag of the Tiny Tom donuts – but here came a decision – did you want plain, icing sugar or cinnamon sugar coating. Easier to have one or two of each.
We were allowed only so many rides and had to choose wisely as there were so many to choose from, but as a four year old, the year we went without my sister who was too young to attend I had my first real encounter with indecision.
There was a ride that, like a merry-go-round, had a few boats, a few cars, a motorcycle and a bus. I had my eye on the bus. I have no idea why – the mind of a four year old – but that was my goal – to get on that bus. And I did. The problem came when I had to decide which seat to take. I spent that entire ride sitting in every possible seat. I started as the driver. Then I sat on the left side, then switched to the right side and finally sat right at the back. It was like a game of musical chairs with me the only player. When I got off my mother shook her head and asked me what on earth I was doing and why I hadn’t just sat still and enjoyed the ride. I had no answer, but when she pointed out that I’d pretty much missed the joy of the ride I was crushed. Had my inability to pick a seat caused me to miss out on the fun?
The next summer, once again, without my sister, I wanted that ride and to sit in the bus, in one seat. To just enjoy the ride from whatever vantage point I’d chosen. And there I was this time starting at the back, moved from one side to the other and ended up in the driver’s seat. That year it was more about playing beat the clock – I was determined to spend some time in each seat before the ride ended. Once again, my mother just gave me a look of puzzlement. But that time I didn’t feel I’d been cheated because I went in knowing what I was going to do.
The year I was six, we did have my sister with us, but she was at that point not terribly interested in the rides. As I waited my turn to sit myself down on that bus, a boy got in there with me. I was so affronted and forced to sit in only one of the 3 seats remaining. He had taken the driver’s seat, so I sat on the side, looking dejectedly out at my mother as I passed by on the turning wheel. He stayed in his seat the entire ride. Why not, he was driving.
I never rode that bus again. Not out of disappointment, I had outgrown the ride. Looking back now as the adult I am, I think it was less about not being able to decide about where to sit as it was about having too many choices and about perspective. I could be the driver who was in control or I could be a passenger seeing things from a different angle. If I was at the back of the bus, I could see all around me. If I chose a seat on the left or the right, I would be looking out a window that faced only one way.
Maybe that decision I was trying to make in the darkness of the early hours is about perspective as well. Not about what I might lose as much as what would I have to gain.
