Should I stay or should I go?

Should I stay or should I go now?/
If I go there will be trouble/
And if I stay it will be double/
So you gotta let me know/
Should I stay or should I go?

The Clash, "Should I Stay or Should I Go?"

My so-called life feels anxiety-ridden at the best of times. Usually, I can blame it on too much coffee, too much running late from place to place, too little downtime between professional meetings or social face-offs, or some existential cocktail thereof. Mix three parts Red Bull with one part absinthe and one part grain alcohol. Shake nervously. Pour directly into your gullet followed by a sprig of mint. Repeat as necessary. Don't enjoy.

The last couple of weeks, however, have been particularly fraught with tension in my life--entirely self-induced, of course, the kind I do best. Because, let's face it, it's a poor quality stress headache unless it's one of my own creation.

It all started out in mid-July with one simple email, an email containing a cover letter and résumé for a job--in Canada. (When I go for tension, I go global, in a big, transborder, cross-cultural, multinational way.) Within a few days, I had a call back. Within another couple of days, I had an interview scheduled. Within a few more, I had references contacted and had to break the news to my boss that I'd applied for a job and was going to the Kitchener-Waterloo area for the interview. In two more weeks, I was on the interview, and within a week after that, I was offered the job.

And then the even fiercer, more sledgehammer-to-the-temple tension headache began--trying to make a decision about my future, about a giant leap across the Great Lakes to a different way of life, one that would not only affect me and my (in)ability to pack light, but also my family, my friends, my colleagues, my landlord, my garden, my bank account, my health insurance, my retirement funds . . . and so forth.

You name it, I thought about it. C'mon, take a gander at my mental slander . . .

Would I like the job? Do I like all aspects of the job or only some? Could I do the job, even the odd parts that I'm not quite sure what they're getting at? Do I like the job because it's not the one I already have? Am I just a hopeless change junkie?

What about my new colleagues? Would I get along with them? Would I like them as well as I do my current ones? They seemed nice enough--they're Canadians after all--but what if I was wrong? What if they specialized in bullying or passive-aggression or interpreting union rules to not just the letter of the law, but also the kerning, the font type, the serif or sans serif of said letter? I've certainly been wrong before, thinking that people were more decent than they deserved credit for. Hell, I've not only worked with those types, I've dated them. Thus, could I be completely misjudging the situation, ending up with a tacky one-night-stand rather than a decent proposal?

And then there's the boss to consider, who again seemed great. But could I just be fooling myself? Am I just seeing what I want to see? It's been known to happen.

What about the town? Would it offer me enough of what I want out of life? Friends, culture, good shopping, creativity, intellectual stimulation, aesthetic beauty, some decent hiking, some gay visibility attained in ways other than hanging out in bars on Saturday nights? I'm getting precious little of any of that now, I kept thinking, and it's been that way for some time, certainly since I left Texas. And probably even before I went to Texas.

Well, if K-W doesn't offer me what I need, there's always Toronto, I reasoned. But Toronto's an hour-and-a-half away by car. There's three-times-daily train service to the city, and the suburban Go! trains stretch out to nearby suburbs but not close enough. Still, would that be close enough? Especially in the winter?

And what about the weather? The metric system? Health care? Taxes? The salary? Friendships in the States? My family in the States? Registering my old, on-its-last-rims Subaru in Ontario? Moving? Packing? Would people like me in Canada? Would I be able to slide through life on charm for a little while longer? Or would they hate me because I'm American? Don't they even hate that phrase "I'm American" because they consider themselves American (as in the continent, not the country), too?

Am I abandoning my family? Or did I do that already when I moved to Pennsylvania? And if so, will moving 150 miles closer, necessitating people drive through (dear holy trinity) Buffalo or Detroit to reach me, and requiring everyone to get a passport to come visit me make the situation any better?

Am I abandoning my country? Am I abandoning the people of New Orleans? Do I stay and fight through the next two elections, only to become even more disgruntled and disillusioned when the next regime change produces no better social safety net, no better golden rule ethos in public policy? Just the same ol' raggedly fishnet hose of social security, just the same ol'-same ol' golden calf to worship? Do I care anymore? I pay my taxes (on time), I obey (most) traffic laws, I take off my shoes and belt at the airport (unasked), and, although, granted, I haven't bought a house yet nor do I change out cars every two years, I shop to keep the economy moving (even at my financial peril). In other words, I'm a model citizen. Except for the whole God, children, and homeownership thing.

Yet, my government remains unimpressed much of the time. For every effort at good citizenship, my report card gets a mark of a "could try harder," "needs improvement," or "hmmm, well, that's OK, but couldn't you wave a flag while you're doing that?" Then every couple of years I get nominated for a Scapegoat Superlative Award in the category of "Most Likely to Stir Up the Fervor of the Religious Right During a Time of Bigger Issues that We'd Prefer the Electorate to Ignore." Gays teaching kids, gays having sex, gays in the military, gays at the marriage altar. Yadda yadda yadda.

Thus, I can't help but wonder why should I keep on keeping on in this abusive relationship between average citizen and a government that can't seem to keep its hands off my body politic? Especially when our Big Government Neighbor to the North seems to have adopted a more laissez-faire approach to life and "lifestyle"?

Do I want to move to Canada to get married? Heck, I can't even get a second date. Marriage isn't even up for consideration. I'm not sure I'd even do it if it was available. But it's nice to be asked. It's good to know it's a possibility, just in case I need a new toaster, an ice cream maker, or some new china. I could register at The Bay and Zellers in a heartbeat, folks.

Am I leaving my old job too soon? Am I rushing into a new sensation too quickly? Would Kitchener-Waterloo be the Harrisburg of Southwestern Ontario? Or the Altoona? Or maybe the Johnstown?

Would I be, as they say on the TV show, Little Britain, the "only gay in the village"? C'mon, it's a university town--in fact, there are three universities all within 20 miles of one another. How can it not be at least a little gay? But would those fellow travelers be like all the other guys I meet, either duds or dirtbags? Either as loose-hipped as Cristina Aguilera in her "Dirrty" phase or as tight-lipped as some ol' closet case with a fear-of-God-and-mother complex?

Do I want to spend my life at a university? Might I like to do something else with my meager talents and rapidly dissipating existence? Maybe something non-academic? Maybe something more creative and fun, that doesn't involve theorizing existence to the most granular and boring level imaginable?

What about my garden and the houseplants and all the money I'd spent on them this year? Would my sunflowers bloom before I moved? Would I get a crop of fully ripened tomatoes before I had to throw everything out and start all over somewhere else? And what about that growing season in Canada? And the lack of light in the winter? And proper layering and wicking?

Endless, endless. And this is just the short version.

But this, dear readers, is how my mind words. While I can generally make up my mind whether I want chicken or beef on an airplane (assuming anything is offered at all), Coke or Pepsi at a counter with a long line, or paper or plastic at the supermarket, when it comes to Life's Big Decision, I can quickly become paralyzed by thought. Or rather, thoughts.

However, that just doesn't make for the quick decision-making, can-do-or-die-trying type of leader potential employers are looking for, especially when they are hinting that you should be ready to move to a new province (as they say down Canada way) and start a new job by October. And, jeez, look at the time, it's already 28 past August.

So what do I do now? Talking with friends and family can be useful, but when push comes to shove, when move comes to a full force run for the border, it all comes down to me.

And, me, well, I have plenty of thoughts on the matter. But nary a clue.

Still, after a week more of wailing, gnashing of teeth, seeking counsel, not sleeping, eating too much, and a generalized whiny misery that seems to afflict me everytime I contemplate a potentially life-changing moment, I made a decision. And that decision was . . . one which was satisfying to no one, including me.

Meanwhile, the Clash plays on . . .

This indecision's bugging me/
If you don't want me, set me free/
Exactly who'm I'm supposed to be/
Don't you know which clothes even fit me?/
Come on and let me know/
Should I cool it or should I blow?