It's Tuesday, which means I've just come from my therapist. Which means I really shouldn't be blogging, because after an hour of shoveling out all the ash in my brainpain I feel very introspective and questioning and altogether insufferably boring. How dare she stir up the embers that smolder all week, fan them with pure oxygen, and send me out to fend for myself with flames shooting out my ears?
I like my therapist because she reminds me of Jane Alexander's character on "Tell Me You Love Me," which I watched with varying interest during its run. The stories that the three couples were living grabbed my interest intermittently, so I made a point of never watching it in real time. DVR viewing helped me pass over the Hipster Lustbuckets, who lost me after episode 2, so I could concentrate on the Barren Yuppies and the Domestic Celibates. Regardless of the exogenous lifecrap that each patient was navigating, the sessions with May were always fascinating, because the characters reacted quite believably, in my view, to whatever revelations they were either discovering or willfully ignoring. And the whole idea of two people building a love/partnership that survives the test of time is an especially intriguing concept, because on paper it seems so laughably illogical.
I've only had one therapist, and I've only been seeing her for a few months, so I can't say I'm anything close to an expert on all this. But I know I like meeting her each week, in her little, windowless pillbox of a room, because she seems to know just the right thing to say to keep me on edge, questioning the subtext, and nursing my metaphorical shoulder burns.
See? Boring. Sorry about that.
