Having been apprised of my unnatural preoccupation with ringtones, inability to choose a decently fitting bra and guerrilla warfare with discourteous parkers, you will most likely find this a dissonant truth.
By trade, I’m a psychotherapist.
If it helps to know, there are days that my shock equals yours. Still, despite our collective incredulity, the reality endures.
I feel as exposed admitting this as I do my fear of self-checkout at the grocery store (if I wanted to check myself out, I’d have become a cashier) and intolerance for self-expressive babies. It’s almost as hard as declaring myself a writer. Both give rise to an expectation that I’m somewhat self-actualized, have something intelligent to say, and avoid exclamation point abuse. There are days I can deliver. Others, I wish I’d gone into antiques.
At parties, when asked what I do, I say, “I’m a therapist,” then make a show of eating my deviled egg in hopes that the subject will be dropped.
It never is.
“You mean, like, a physical therapist?”
Suppressing a sigh of dismay, I say, “No. The kind that asks, ‘how does that make you feel?””
“Yes,” I answer, stifling a desire to tack on twelve exclamation points.
Reactions to my admission cover an impressive range. Silence generally predominates, but in two distinct forms. Some people nod vigorously, lean in to ask questions, then freeze, confounded by what to ask. Others drop their eyes and focus on their own deviled eggs. Years have taught me that the nodder/leaners hope to extract scintillating nuggets that generally fail to exist. Eye-droppers are panicking that I have a special view into their private peccadilloes. For this bunch I have sympathy. “Don’t worry,” I want to reassure them. “If you’re a necrophiliac or shoplifter, I can’t tell.” If it didn’t sound like an accusation, I wouldn’t think twice about it.
Should I meet you at a party, here are a few things you should know.
Unless you’re shrouded in a palpable air of mystery, I’m not trying to figure you out.
I feel entitled to be as dysfunctional as you.
If a cigar is really just a cigar, and that cigar is yours, I’m wishing you’d take it elsewhere.
I’ve spent the majority of my adult life dissecting my neuroses. Trotting them out on the world wide web is much more entertaining.
If I’m staring into space, I’m not ruminating on penis envy. I’m adrift in my internal world, absorbed with matters in parts unknown.
So, now that I’ve run naked through the blogosphere with my confession, and you failed to avert your eyes, care to share something you hesitate to admit?
No Death On the Beach! | The Parking Chronicles IV →