The Indecisive Time Traveler’s Dilemma
I’ve long been obsessed with the idea of the ‘Sliding Doors’ moment: one seemingly inconsequential event that changes the trajectory of your entire life — an obsession that began when I first watched the 1998 movie that inspired the name of this phenomenon.
Until the gift of goop, Sliding Doors was Gwynyth Paltrow’s most significant contribution to pop culture. If you haven’t seen the film, first reevaluate whether you’ve really been taking advantage of all those streaming service subscriptions, then keep reading as I summarize: Paltrow plays Helen, a woman whose life goes in two wildly different directions based on whether she does or does not catch a train. In the first scenario, she makes the train, arriving home to discover her boyfriend in bed with another woman. Devastated, Helen channels her heartbreak into a new beau and fresh lease on life, chic breakup haircut included. In the second scenario, she just misses the train and subsequently, her boyfriend’s infidelity, enabling him to string her along as her life continues on a downward spiral.
Now, I’m generally happy with my life; I live in a world-class city where I can attend a Monet exhibit, dine on Michelin-rated dim sum and pay $14 to see Amy Schumer perform live, all on a random Tuesday, I have friends who make me laugh so hard I could pee my pants (and have, more than once) and I’ve been blessed with exceptional nail beds. But that hasn’t stopped me from wondering what my life might look like if just one moment had played out differently.
The crux of turning this daydream into reality is that it’s impossible to pinpoint which moment to change. I get anxious when presented with the opportunity to alter my fate with a single trip in a time machine because we have no way of knowing its butterfly effect. What if I visit my grandfather who died before I was born and that somehow interferes with my dad’s initial encounter with my mom at that Santa Cruz coffee shop? Or I travel back to that autumn afternoon in 1995 where Miss Yelena, my very old, very Russian, and very mean dance teacher has just made me cry; I convince my kindergarten self not to quit ballet but years later I suffer a Black Swan-style mental breakdown. You get the idea.
In the age of scrolling and swiping, I’m already paralyzed by choice over insignificant purchases and significant others. Strategizing the remodel of one’s entire life is simply too monumental a responsibility for an average (but charming!) thirty-one-year-old woman.
Instead, I’d prefer to leave this one up to the time machine. I have to assume that if we’re in a universe where time travel is possible, advanced artificial intelligence is possible, too. Of course, if the time machine cannot choose a destiny-ation for me, I suppose I would revisit that fateful evening at Blockbuster when I first reached for Sliding Doors; no chance The Pallbearer inspires this level of anxiety.
