I spent twenty-three minutes trying to choose something to watch the other night.
Twenty-three.
I scrolled through comedies.
Dramas.
Documentaries.
New releases.
Things recommended specifically for me by an algorithm that apparently knows me intimately but still thinks I want to watch a six-part documentary about competitive cycling.
I opened another streaming service.
Then another.
Read descriptions.
Watched previews.
Checked reviews.
Added three things to my list.
And eventually decided I didn't really feel like watching anything.
So I went on my phone.
We have access to almost every movie ever made, thousands of television shows and more content than we could consume in several lifetimes.
And somehow there is still nothing to watch.
And I couldn't help but wonder:
Maybe the problem isn't that we don't have enough choices. Maybe we have far too many.
We Wanted Options
And we got them.
Want dinner?
There are 137 restaurants within delivery distance.
Need shampoo?
Here are 400 bottles promising volume, moisture, shine, repair, growth, detoxification and possibly spiritual renewal.
Want jeans?
Straight.
Wide.
Barrel.
Cropped.
Relaxed.
Slim.
High-rise.
Mid-rise.
Low-rise, because apparently we learned nothing.
Coffee?
Milk.
Oat.
Almond.
Coconut.
Half-caf.
Decaf.
Cold foam.
Vanilla foam.
Protein foam.
At some point ordering coffee started requiring the decision-making skills of a small government.
We wanted freedom.
We wanted personalization.
We wanted everything made specifically for us.
And now we're standing in the toothpaste aisle wondering why purchasing toothpaste feels stressful.
There Is Always Something Better
That's the real problem with unlimited choice.
Whatever you choose, you know something else exists.
The restaurant was good.
But maybe the one two blocks over would've been better.
The hotel was beautiful.
But you saw another one on Instagram after you booked.
The sofa looks great.
But then Pinterest showed you the sofa.
You buy the black dress and spend the next three days getting advertisements for seventeen better black dresses.
Even satisfaction has become temporary.
Because the second we make a decision, the internet immediately shows us everything we didn't choose.
And suddenly a perfectly good choice feels suspiciously like settling.
We Research the Fun Out of Everything
Remember just going to a restaurant?
Someone recommended it.
You went.
That was essentially the entire process.
Now we investigate dinner like we're considering an acquisition.
Check Google.
Check Instagram.
Look at the tagged photos because the restaurant's photos are obviously biased.
Read the menu.
Read the reviews.
Search TikTok.
Find out what everyone says you have to order.
Determine whether the lighting is acceptable.
Make the reservation.
Look up parking.
By the time we arrive, we've already seen the dining room, read the menu and watched six strangers cut into the pasta we're about to order.
There is no surprise left.
We haven't even eaten dinner and somehow we've already experienced it.
Shopping Used to End at the Store
This might be where we've really gotten ourselves into trouble.
There used to be a natural end to shopping.
You went to the store.
You looked at what they had.
You picked something.
You went home.
Now the store never closes.
There is always another website.
Another brand.
Another recommendation.
Another sale.
Another person on TikTok telling you the thing you bought six months ago is out and this nearly identical thing is now in.
We aren't just shopping anymore.
We're constantly being presented with evidence that there might be something better.
No wonder our closets are full and we still feel like we have nothing to wear.
We're comparing the clothes we actually own to an infinite imaginary closet.
The imaginary closet wins every time.
Then We Did It to Our Lives
This is where it gets uncomfortable.
Because unlimited choice didn't stop with shampoo and restaurants.
It moved into the big things.
Careers.
Cities.
Relationships.
Homes.
Lifestyles.
We can see thousands of possible lives every day.
Someone quit corporate America and moved to Portugal.
Someone else became a CEO at 32.
Someone bought a farmhouse.
Someone lives in Manhattan.
Someone works remotely from hotels.
Someone became a stay-at-home parent.
Someone decided not to have children.
Someone started over at 45.
Someone retired at 39.
And all of these lives appear on the same little screen while we're sitting on our couch wondering whether we're doing ours correctly.
Previous generations compared themselves to neighbors.
We're comparing ourselves to eight billion people.
That seems slightly unfair.
What If This Was the Choice?
There is something terrifying about choosing when we believe every option must remain available.
Because choosing one thing means not choosing something else.
Marrying this person means not meeting everyone you could've met.
Taking this job means not knowing what would've happened at another company.
Buying this house means giving up the imaginary house with the bigger kitchen.
Having children changes one life.
Not having them creates another.
Every real life requires the death of thousands of hypothetical ones.
Maybe that's why commitment feels harder when we have endless options.
We're terrified that somewhere, hidden behind another swipe or search or decision, is the perfect version.
The perfect job.
The perfect city.
The perfect partner.
The perfect house.
The perfect pair of jeans.
But maybe perfect is mostly a side effect of not having to live with something yet.
Maybe Good Enough Is Actually Very Good
This sounds terribly unambitious.
I know.
We've been taught never to settle.
Demand more.
Dream bigger.
Keep looking.
And sometimes that's exactly right.
Leave the bad relationship.
Find the better job.
Move.
Change.
Try again.
But there is a difference between refusing to settle for something that makes us miserable and refusing to settle into anything at all.
At some point, we have to stop evaluating and start experiencing.
The restaurant doesn't need to be the best restaurant in the city.
Dinner just needs to be good.
The vacation doesn't need to be perfectly optimized.
The sofa doesn't need to survive every future design trend.
The outfit doesn't need to be the best possible combination of everything in your closet.
And maybe your life doesn't need to be the best possible life you could theoretically have lived.
It just needs to feel like yours.
Close the Tabs
Maybe that's the solution.
Not literally.
Although, judging by my browser, that would probably help.
Choose the restaurant.
Order what sounds good.
Buy the jeans that fit.
Watch the movie.
Book the hotel.
Wear the dress.
Stop reading reviews after you've already purchased something.
And occasionally allow yourself the enormous luxury of not knowing what else was available.
Because there will always be another option.
Another restaurant.
Another handbag.
Another city.
Another career.
Another version of ourselves we could've become.
But we don't get to live every possible life.
We get this one.
And maybe happiness has less to do with making the perfect choice and more to do with finally putting down the menu.
And I couldn't help but wonder:
What if the reason nothing feels like enough is that we never stop looking at everything else?
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