That Mark Zuckerberg’s a card, isn’t he? Earlier this week, as Facebook’s boss returned to work after paternity leave, he shared a photograph of his wardrobe with the caption, “What should I wear?” The photo showed nine identical grey T-shirts, alongside seven grey hoodies.

As Zuckerberg had previously explained, he doesn’t like to waste energy thinking about clothes when he could be devising new ways to undermine privacy. (I’m paraphrasing, of course.) In this, he’s a lot like Barack Obama. “I don’t want to make decisions about what I’m eating or wearing,” the president says about his uniform of grey or blue suits. “I have too many other decisions to make.”

This can seem like bragging – “Look at me! Busy, busy, busy!” – but Zuckerberg and co are on to something. At every turn, even those of us who don’t run multibillion-dollar businesses are expected to decide about things that barely matter, or between options of equal attractiveness. Why wouldn’t you simplify your life if you could? Isn’t it better, as psychologist Barry Schwartz put it, to “take all of the time you would have spent choosing breakfast cereal, jeans, toothpaste and dental floss and nurture the things that really make you happy”?

Sticking with clothes for a moment, why would any man wear anything but jeans day in day out, unless their lifestyle demanded something more formal or forgiving – if they were an undertaker or a sportsman, say? Why spend five minutes every morning wavering over chinos, combat trousers, cords, jeggings or whatever the fashion industry says is “in”? Jeans are tough, timeless and classless. They truly are the people’s trousers.

As an adult, I have rarely worn anything else, and once I found a make that suited me – stone-washed, generously cut, not too expensive – I’d save time by buying several pairs at once, with nothing changing from year to year but the waist measurement. I stuck with that first brand – let’s call it Retailer A – for well over a decade, and would have remained faithful if the crotches hadn’t begun to self-destruct, usually at the worst possible moment (broken down in a snowdrift, on a beach in Dorset, in a classroom full of six-year-olds) . After a while you get tired of worrying you might end up in a cell, charged with indecent exposure.

Having switched to Retailer B, only another Crotchlesstrousergate would induce me to waste a single minute trying on functionally identical alternatives from Levi’s, Wrangler or Tommy Hilfiger.

Mark Zuckerberg’s wardrobe. Photograph: Mark Zuckerberg/Facebook

In scifi movies about dystopias, you’ll often find that everyone is dressed the same, with no chance to express their individuality. It looks like heaven to me.

To see the tyranny of choice at its worst, consider the food industry, starting with supermarkets with their tens of thousands of product lines and ending with Chinese or Indian restaurants and their novel-length menus. You can’t even get a bite in a pub without weighing up a dozen starters and mains. What’s the perfect menu, if you’re not a fussy eater or coping with allergies? One starter, one main, one dessert (OK, let’s double that for the vegetarians).

Everyone knows that kitchens get better results when they focus on a handful of dishes, so why eat somewhere with a wider but worse repertoire? One of the most enjoyable meals I ever had was in a no-frills dining room attached to a French farm. Everyone got the same pork and mash, in a gorgeous parsley sauce. Dessert was some tart or other. The only decision came at the end: “Du café?”

As a bonus, the removal of choice forces you out of your comfort zone. With a lengthy menu, the temptation is to stick with dishes you know. If the only choice is jellied moose nose… well, you just might try it.

Wishing for less choice can make you look like a Cnut. Politicians, in particular, are constantly telling us that more is better – in schools, in hospitals, in membership of the UK, or the EU – but even where such fundamental matters are concerned, choice is not the be-all and end-all. Most of us would rather be stuck with one good school or doctor than have the right to decide between a dozen rubbish ones.

Speaking of rubbish, I’ve stopped going to Subway because I can’t face the endless bloody decisions you have to make before walking out with a sandwich. If you’ve never experienced it first-hand, the company’s website will give you a taste. “Creating your perfect Sub couldn’t be easier,” it claims – and then the pestering starts.

“What size of Sub would you like? Six-inch or foot-long?”; “Which bread? Italian, hearty Italian, honey oat, Italian herbs and cheese, wheat?” “Which filling? Beef, chicken breast, ham, sweet onion chicken teriyaki, turkey breast, turkey breast and ham, Veggie Delite™, chicken tikka …” and on and on and sodding on. And we haven’t even got to the cheese yet, or the salad or the sauce. Do I want that toasted? No, I’d rather stick my nuts in the oven.

What do you mean, that’s not one of the options?