Lately, I’ve been feeling as anxious as a cat’s tail in a house full of rocking chairs. But the strange thing is that I’m not sure why. My therapist said that we philosophers tend to be very insecure. I suspect it may have something to do with how we are socialised. One of my colleagues said that his family has a longstanding tradition according to which the favourite son would become a doctor while the least favourite son would study philosophy. Can you imagine what growing up in such a home environment would do to one's self esteem? Fortunately my parents are equally proud and supportive of all their children. (Or at least that's what they told me the day my older brother graduated from medical school.)
Nevertheless, I still find myself with about as much confidence as a 40-year-old ex-nun on her wedding night. Perhaps that explains why I tend to be so indecisive. Just this morning Diane wanted to know if I would prefer eggs or pancakes, and I simply couldn’t make up my mind. Irritated, she complained if it would kill me to be decisive for once? I said maybe, but that I wasn’t sure. It was at that point that the frying pan accidentally slipped from her hand, flew across the room, and hit me in the face.