Finality

When the choice is made, the papers are signed, and the check endorsed, the final step is to turn it all in and get it verified.
By mail. Via FedEx. Through e-mail. In person.

A couple months ago, I made the decision to run a half marathon. I'd thought about this for a while, a bunch of years, actually, but never took the proverbial steps beyond picking up a brochure. An opportunity arose, I slipped a brochure in my pocket, then later received a company-wide announcement. A second reinforcement. I thought about it, not having trained before and, with only a month prior to this event, not feeling ready.

However, I decided I had nothing to lose. So what, if I had to walk it? So what, if I finished in 4 hours after the street cleaners have passed by? So what, if I ran part and walked part? It was the end result, the committment to the next step, the accomplishment, or, rather, to the turned page: done. I filled out the papers, signed my name, wrote the check, then, at last, mailed it. That final step sealed the deal.

Yea, I finished the half, not by the time I'd hoped for, rather 13 minutes slower, but hey, that's okay.

Recently, I took the steps towards another paper-signing venture. Downloaded everything from the internet, read it through, consulted with someone, read more, consulted again, then, after a bit of urging, I filled them out. Yes, them. Multiple pages.
This took about three hours -- disturbed my sleep that night and for nights to follow until I could take the next steps: copying and filing.

It's a weird process all of this. Making a decision then following through with it, then following through with it on an entirely objective level. It's a committment of a different kind: committing to a major turn in life, a drastic change, a road untraveled and, yea, a bit bumpy.

I took the multiple pages to one place then was told to take them elsewhere, miles from where I stood. Place number one no longer accepted them even though the website says otherwise. Aaargh. A major hurdle in my efforts to trepidatiously take this step.

When I arrived at Place #2, I had less than 15 minutes until closing and there was a short line before me. I rationalized that I'd have to return the following week, not enough time, a pause beyond my control settled in. A clock slowly ticked, the minute hand swung upward to the top of the hour with a slow thud. I could hear every sound, each footstep on the shiny floor, each whining door that opened and closed with an echo. The conversation between the security folks behind me regarding days off and whose day today was his 'Friday.'

The people in front of me stepped forward, presented their documents then tsked when the receiver asked for supplementary information. The male paper-hander justified his presence there and why he didn't have further information; the woman beside him shuffled papers in a thick, plasticine folder and tsked again.

"Next."
I stepped forward and stated my reason for being here in front of her, Diana. I handed her my packet of papers which she sorted through like a disordered deck of cards. No casino bow tie, though, she wore a flower patterned t-shirt and jeans. Her black hair hung unremarkably around her ears to her shoulders. She tucked the right strand behind her ear as she looked at me, then back down at the papers.

"Do you have the ...?"
'No,' I said, 'I wasn't sure if I needed that. I thought it had to do with...' She sighed, explained to me its purpose, then sighed again. She glanced at the clock on the wall to her left. We both spied it was five minutes until the hour.
'Can you duplicate it? I mean, don't you have a copy of that here? Or do I have to come back another time and do all this?'
She said nothing in response. Instead, she typed away at her computer keyboard, scribbled something on one of my papers, then stepped away. When she returned, she picked up a massive stamper, not unlike the type a librarian uses, or, in the old days, that a grocer might use to punch purple-inked prices onto cans of soup or jars of pickles.

She flipped it over,slid the cage down, stared at her computer monitor, spun some dials on the stamper, checked the monitor again, looked at the stamper's reverse image, then released the shiny metal cage. She gave it a practice stamp on a blank notepad, checked the notation, then slid my papers over.

Ker-chunk, ker-chunk, ker-chunk, heavy, ancient processing that verified my presence, that demonstrated the seriousness of this bundle of papers. Ker-chunk, ker-chunk. Page after page, corner after corner was emblazoned in a square of purple block print and a number.

At last, she finished stamping. Put device aside on her counter where purple markings from unintended stamping occured. The area looked like a dried up grape lake. She picked up a yellow highlighter, squeaked it across certain areas, then spun these sheets around to me. "Fill out here, here, here, and here. Sign here." Her finger jabbed at each yellow spot. This was the forgotten sheet.

I did so and spun it back to her. My hand was shaking as I tucked my pen back into my pocket. I was slipping into that zone of final-stepness.
"The fee is... dollars."
'Okay. Can I use my debit card?'
She reached her hand out and took my card with only a nod, no comment, and stepped away from her counter, my papers in hand.

The clock ticked upward. Behind me, I heard the security gentlemen's heavy gait as they secured with a bang the glass doors. It was 30 seconds until closing. I sighed.

Diana returned and handed me my card. She stapled my receipt to the top left corner, reached again for her tool, ker-chunk, ker-chunk: an original and a copy. Her cuticles were unintended purple half moons. She snapped a black paper clip around the originals, half-tossed them into a box marked, "To File, Room 151, April 6, 2011 then slid the copies across the sheened countertop towards me.

It was finalized.
'Do I need to mail these or ...?'
"You'll need to use ... or if you want, at the US Post Office you'll need to pay for Certified Delivery. That's cheaper." She gave me a broken smile.
'Thank you.'

As I walked out, I looked down at the packet. The purple ink fluttered in the bay's wind, unhelped by my shaky hands. A weird hole formed within me. As I crammed the papers into my bag, it felt just the opposite: rather than tucking something in, I was letting something go.

It's an interesting process, decision making. Well-thought out, the end result should be positive, or so we hope. Right now, smack in the middle of the post-decision process, it's difficlt to sense the end-of-tunnel light. However, these steps would not have been taken if some aspect of betterment, some tiny essence that there will be something positive was not thought to be on the road ahead.

A fork in the road and neither turn leads to a Dead End. However taking one route over the other is Final. Taking the alternative is Not an Option. There's no turning back.