Three day weekend approaching. Lousy neighbors and fireworks make me anxious. I’m trying not to think about it. My head is still a bit wobbly and that means I am not quite myself. That’s what I tell friends when they check in on me after a quiet period or one too many invite declines.
“Are you better today?”
“I am not myself. Don’t worry.”
This morning I wrote a whole chapter in my head, in between feeding/chasing the dog/cats, showering, fighting with my hair (I lost), treating the dog’s ears without injury (to either of us), patching up my blue nail polish which incidentally matches my shirt (I hate that), smudging said patched nails while getting into the car, managing to stay calm during a traffic jam… all the time writing, in my head, about my first visit to therapy (years ago) and the creepiness of the tiny waiting area, and even tinier office situated behind a separate locked door and doorbell for “safety”, I suppose.
…The office was decorated to look like an English sitting room; fake fireplace, fake antique settee dressed in pink damask and too many tassels. So many tassels. Do not count the tassels, I would think to myself. The therapist– MY therapist, was an attractive older women with features much like that of a porcelain doll; giant, glassy, slow-blinking blue eyes framed with gummy black lashes, pink cheeks and sandy blonde shoulder-length hair anchored by barrels of ringlets…