Chatting it Up with the Doctor

Is there anyone left in this town who doesn't have a therapist?

I've tried before. Really I have. I mean, it's the hip thing and goodness knows if there's anything about me that you should know by now, I'm all about being hip. Unfortunately, somewhere between notes made in a manila file folder and the coy timer that politely states "Time up", therapy always loses it's charm. Nevertheless, if one person tells you you have a tail, ignore them. If several people tell you you have a tail, it's time to find a mirror. Several people have told me that I should see somebody (yes, that's right I seem to have misplaced my husband), so i guess it's time to find a counselor.

And in spite of myself, I might have done that. The good doc is safe. She's sweet and quiet and looks at me in a "poor dear" sort of way that would have previously made me wretch. But she asks me about Dalton. No one does that anymore. And I can talk about him without feeling guilty that I am ruining someone's day or monopolizing a conversation or being a boring/dreadful friend. After all, I am paying her to listen and I had best get my money's worth. So I talk. And talk. And talk.

And funny enough, I cry. And it feels good.

She asks me about him. What is he like? What do I like most about him? How would I describe our relatinoship? When do I miss him the most. How did we meet? What is the hardest part of my day? And on and on until the timer says "Time's up." And she says without any hesitation, "Bring a picture next time."

I will.