For the past few days, my wife has been searching on the Internet for the perfect beach house to rent for a week. Every evening, every five minutes or so, she calls out "How about this one?" and I trudge over, glance at snapshots of kitchens, bedrooms and porches, and grunt, assertively but noncommittally, "Looks OK!" I'm barely back on the couch before I hear "How about THIS one?" and get up to do it all over again.

I have now agreed to rent out 127 beach houses. My wife has decided on none of them.

I actually like to make decisions, but I have a system. I walk through my days performing triage, sorting problems into three categories: 1) easy decisions 2) decisions I can procrastinate over, and 3) decisions my wife will take care of for me.

Easy decisions, things like "credit or debit?" or "domestic or imported beer?" or "shower today or just keep away from people?" are made on the spot. Decisions I can procrastinate over, such as "what to have for dinner?" or "what color to paint the fence?" or "is it a good time to refinance the mortgage?" can always be put off until tomorrow, at which point I can decide, again, to put off making a decision.

Often, with careful planning and exacting patience, decisions I can procrastinate over can slip seamlessly into the third category, at which point, they're not really my problem, are they?

It's not that I can't make a decision in life. It's that I'm too wily to get pinned down. If I decide on the blue beach house and it turns out the photos were misleading and it's a shack, then I can just shrug my shoulders, free from blame. Over the years, through training, practice and dedication, I've become a ninja in avoiding responsibility, evading decisions the way Bruce Lee sidestepped Shuriken throwing stars.

My wife, on the other hand, likes the process of making decisions almost more than the decision itself. Deciding what to wear to work involves a competition reminiscent of "American Idol." Only when we get down to the final elimination in the shoe category do I know we're close to getting out the door.

And when my wife arranges a trip for us (a decision I quickly and wisely shoved into the category of "have wife make for you"), she can spend hours checking flight options. Do we want a direct flight? One that goes through Chicago? What about leaving an hour earlier, but getting in only 45 minutes quicker? I nod my head at all of the options.

My wife's determination to turn every choice into a complex equation requiring a mainframe computer to sort out, coupled with my decided lack of decisiveness, has become an ongoing issue. When we go out to dinner, we'll put off the decision on where to go until we're actually in the car.

Once we've gotten to the point where we're actually going out and get in the car, we'll sit in the driveway, the motor idling. My wife will ask where I want to go, and I'll make an executive decision.

"Anyplace," I'll say.

"We could go to Mad Mex," she'll offer up.

I'll nod, noncommittally, knowing it ain't over until it's over. I'll wait patiently, patiently, for ...

"Or we could go to Azul! Or maybe that new place that opened on the South Side!"

"Yeah," I'll say. "Those all sound good!"

We'll go around like that in the driveway, with her offering endless choices, and me evading making an actual decision, until we get tired or run out of gas. Then we'll most likely go back in the house to watch a movie on cable.

You can find us in the living room, endlessly flipping channels, with my wife saying, "how 'bout this one?" and me, comfortably sure that she'll change her mind in another second, nodding.

Noncommittally, of course.