Uncomfortable situations come in all shapes and sizes: perhaps your creepy mailman asks if you have a boyfriend. Or maybe, as you check out at the drugstore, the cashier asks for a price check on Ex-Lax. Or maybe, just maybe, you come to the realization that you must tell your therapist you have a crush on him. I can just hear it now... "Yes mother, I met a boy. He's adorable, dreamy in fact. He's a doctor by day; professor by night. He can finish my sentences before I think of the endings. He's smart. Self-aware. Got a killer smile. He's sensitive. Cultured. He just, gets me. Oh, and one more thing. He's my therapist." GASP!
I rehearsed my lines, while walking briskly across 42nd street, dodging hazards like obscenely tremendous umbrellas and dangerously meandering pretzel carts. There was an autumn chill to the air; that, coupled with stinging rain made for an uncomfortable schlep across town - "Listen, Dr. "Smith," I think about you in ways that are..unprofessional." - "I have to sell organs to write you checks, but I want to come here every Tuesday. Forever." - "Look, I know you're married and all, but...." Two more blocks. Ok. CLEARLY none of these were going to work. But I had to bring it up. The elephant in his office was growing larger by the session. Dumbo would surely start to nudge me off the couch with his steadily inflating presence. And even if I had funds to spare, I wasn't about to start subsidizing animal therapy.
The elevator doors opened; I could feel my heartbeat quicken - my left atrium detected the sudden widening of the blood vessels, and adjusted its pumping speed. I could turn around; run away; pretend I was sick; forget I had an appointment. But the challenge was already set. If I could get through this, I could surely do anything. I had to be in therapy purely for myself, NOT so I could engage in endless witty banter with someone so off-limits, for so many reasons. As I entered my favorite little midtown office, I was enveloped by comfort and ease, books, soothing lights, soft steady rain pelting the window. There was chatting. Laughter. Jokes. Sarcastic remarks. Toss of the hair. Yikes, was I flirting? "Tone it down!" the voice inside me screamed. I fidgeted; scanned the room for a distraction. (His beautifully pressed black pants, subtly highlighting toned muscles below? The simple gold wedding band on his finger? The way the light hit his lovely almond skin as he laughed... NO, NO! NO! FOCUS!) We got down to business. It was now or never..
And so I came clean.
Forty-five minutes later, I left his office into the rapidly darkening night, and waited for the M104. I was in one piece; the world was still here; rush hour traffic crept by; no fainting spells had ensued, nor was I still searching for a vacant cave into which I could crawl. Yes, I pictured his warm smiles, analyzed his soothing reaction, remained befuddled by his professionalism, but felt an odd sense of relief wash over me, slowly forcing out the embarassment still occupying my conscience. I reached for my newspaper and flipped to the Real Estate section, immediately drawn to an in depth piece about bedbugs. With horrid fascination, I read about long battles with terrifyingly stubborn and invisible bedroom invaders. And suddenly I knew I was gonna be okay.
No comments:
Post a Comment