The root of my hesitation problem is a little voice in my head that says: “You don’t have to waste money hiring someone to do this; you can manage by yourself if you try hard enough.” At other times, the niggling little voice says: “Are you sure you’re right about that?”

That little voice in my head is my late mother’s voice, intoned to evoke endless guilt, which did not pass over to the other side when she did. Instead, it took up residence in my subconscious where its main function is to promote doubt, waffling, and self-loathing should I ever decide something in my own self-interest.

One memorable time when I heard this voice, Mom was alive then and chastising me for selfishly thinking of hiring a part-time cleaning lady to help out after we enlarged our small raised ranch home with a sizable two-story addition. I was tempted to remind her that she had help cleaning her apartment—two young daughters that she pressed into service and paid them deep, deep, deeply below minimum wage—but that would have opened another can of guilt.

In this particular instance however, I must point out in my own defense that dear old Mom never owned or operated a computer or tried to maintain a wireless network, all the while keeping Macho Guy [aka Mr. Kiss of Death to Computers] from complicating matters further by booting up his laptop. So there.

I admitted defeat after two long, drawn out and excruciating weeks of failure after failure. Regrettably, I called in the Geeks to save my cyberbutt. I say regrettably because that meant I had to declutter my home office ahead of my usual semi-annual purge so the Geek Squad Agent could gain entrance without using a machete or a flamethrower. Drat.

All is well now, wirelessly and clutterwise, but something unexpected occurred during the unscheduled, last minute clutter purge. While sorting through stacks of unopened envelopes and piles of unfiled papers, I turned over a tiny scrap of wrinkled graph paper and discovered a lost treasure. I didn’t want to lose track of it again, so I framed it.

Before I tell you the story behind this lost treasure, it must be understood that I was and am a devoted fan of the original Star Trek series. I never missed an episode. When NBC threatened to cancel it, I wrote a scathing letter demanding that it remain on the air. NBC acceded to my demand. When NBC moved Star Trek to a night when I had a late evening grad school class, I paid my Baby Sister to watch the first fifteen minutes so she could tell me what was happening once I arrived home. I was that mad about Star Trek.

Flash forward a year. Macho Guy and I were married, he was still in the Army, and we lived in Kentucky on base. My Baby Sister and her then fiancé visited us for a week. Macho Guy and I drove them to the Cincinnati airport when they left for home. We had lunch on the way—burgers with the works, including raw onion slices. [This is an important detail.]

While milling through the airport, I spotted a very handsome man walking across the concourse. He reminded me of someone I knew. Hmmm. Who was he? Where had I seen him before? I pointed him out to my Baby Sister.

ME: See that good-looking guy over there?

BABY SISTER: Where?

ME: That one. Straight ahead. [I pointed in his direction.] The good-looking one with the brown hair—with the pointy sideburns.

BABY SISTER: Oh. Okay.

ME: [Gasping for breath] Pointy sideburns? Oh. My. God. That’s WILLIAM SHATNER!!!

BABY SISTER: Who?

ME: William Shatner. William Shatner. Captain Kirk on Star Trek. William Shatner, that’s who.

BABY SISTER: So what?

ME: [Digging in my bag for pen and paper] So, I’m going to ask him for his autograph, that’s what.

BABY SISTER: Are you sure it’s him?

ME: [Hesitating a bit] I’m…I’m pretty sure. It looks just like him. It has to be him.

BABY SISTER: You’ll make a fool of yourself if it’s not him.

ME: [Hesitating again] Well…if he’s just a lookalike, he’s probably used to being asked for his autograph, don’t you think?

BABY SISTER: Yeah, but if it really is him, do you want to embarrass yourself by going up to him with that onion breath and asking for his autograph?

ME: [Exhaling into my palm and hesitating yet again] Damn. That’s really bad. It would be embarrassing.

BABY SISTER: [Nodding] Besides, it can’t be him. Think about it. If he’s such a big TV star, what’s he doing in Cincinnati?

ME: [Hesitating for the final time, I shrugged and sighed as I watched the handsome lookalike disappear from sight.] Right. I guess it couldn’t be him.

A few days later, I received a letter from Baby Sister. A tiny scrap of graph paper floated out when I unfolded her letter, but I didn’t notice something was written on it at first. I read the letter:

Dear Sissy,

Guess what? You were right. It was Bill Baby, and he was on our flight. My darling fiancé went over to him, talked to him, and he got Bill Baby’s autograph for you. All he had on him was a pad of graph paper, and so Bill Baby asked him if he was an accountant. He was really nice. I guess you should have asked for his autograph after all.

Love,

Your Adorable Baby Sister

I was right? She guesses that I should have asked him for his autograph after all? She was the one who talked me out of it, and then she has the colossal nerve to call my William Shatner Bill Baby!

I dropped the letter and turned the scrap of graph paper over. There it was—William Shatner’s autograph. The autograph I could have asked for myself if my Baby Sister hadn’t been channeling our mother and made me hesitate and doubt myself. She who hesitates . . . damn.

I ran into the bedroom, put a pillow over my face and screamed into it. I could have met William Shatner face to face. I could have shaken his hand. I could have thrown myself into his arms and hugged the living Trek out of him. I might even have planted a kiss on him. Uh, maybe not that—damn raw onion. My hands began to shake as my thoughts turned homicidal—no, fratricidal. I wanted to kill my Baby Sister.

I thought I had forgiven her after all these years, but rediscovering that lost treasure brought back the fury and resentment I felt for allowing my Baby Sister to talk me out of asking William Shatner—The Shat—for his autograph. It seems I’m feeling fratricidal again.

I think I’ll invite her here for a visit—without hesitation.