If I didn't have to take care of the kids, I'd do it. If it wasn't for my job, nothing would stop me. If I didn't have a significant other, I'd go. If... If... If...

What happens when every obstacle to risk, every barrier gets removed? What are you left with?

Choice. The opportunity to do anything, absolutely anything you could possibly want to do. Anything. People kill for that kind of freedom.

The papers are signed. A stranger is moving into my condo for an entire year. I have no home, no attachments, no real responsibilities. I have a pocketful of change and a shiny blue suitcase. And most of all, I have a staggering amount of choices.

Living the dream, right?

I won't lie. I'm scared. Sometimes, the more choice I seem to have, the more paralyzed I feel. I think too much. I create lists and analyze them in my head. This city or that one? Who do I move in with? Strangers or friends? When can I go pick up Winston? It's started to affect me, even though I pretend that it doesn't. I have trouble sleeping and my digestion is a mess. I'm frustrated, distracted, tired. And worst of all, I'm dragging all this muck into rehearsal with me. I become a bad actor is some twisted game of self-sabotage. You know, because if I suck well then I can't be disappointed if things don't work out.

And all because I have a wonderful blessing that people all over the world strive for: choice.

Nancy, Nancy, Nancy. What am I going to do with you?