Thursday, October 13, 2011

I'm Pretty Sure He Irons His Socks

I thought it might be informative and fun (at least for me), to write this week’s blog and possible some future blogs focusing on my shrink appointments and my road back to me.

I’m Pretty Sure He Irons His Socks
            I’m talking about my shrink of course.  On the phone he sounded all country, which made me a little afraid.  Why do the office buildings for these guys always look like old torture chambers, or at minimum like old moldy high schools?  I love the waiting rooms.  Ten crazy people all trying not to look crazy as we flip through Woman’s Day, or Newsweek.  I try not to look around too much when I’m sitting there although and this is going to sound so horrible, it is nice to know you aren’t the craziest person in the room.  When they call my name to finish up my insurance paperwork, they just yell out, Sara, because nobody wants to even try to pronounce my last name.  And I’m not exaggerating here, the lady yells my name.  Because that’s a good idea in a room full of nuts.  In Screaming Sally’s office I sit down and she takes off with my military id card.  Naturally I have a look around, and what do I see?  A diploma from Bible Thumper University.  Now I have no problem with the Bible, but I am an open minded individual who considers herself spiritual not thumping.  I even said, uh-oh, under my breath.  After paperwork, in which I signed two documents without seeing either of them, it was back out to the waiting room.  They have a gum machine out there, one of those kind with the chicklet’s in it.  I love those damn things.  I munch my gum and I’m digging for another quarter when this high speed city slicker voice calls my name.  I don’t know how you can sound totally country on the phone and like a New Yorker in person, it was a strange transformation. 
            And there he was, Dr. Shrink.  He led me through a maze of hallways that made me think of the labyrinth and just when I was starting to wonder where the Minotaur was, we came to a tiny room with two chairs, a desk, and a sofa crammed into it.  He told me to have a seat wherever so I took a comfortable looking orange chair.  Mistake.  It was so old that it creaked every time I breathed.  It also rocked so I looked like I was trying to do the fetal position through the whole session.  He had a nice yellow notepad and shot questions at me filling three pages with I have no idea what.  Problem- he’s a pill pusher.  This is what he said, “If there was a pill that could make you feel happy, that could make you feel better, that had no side effects, why wouldn’t you take it?”  I smiled and tried not to be a bitch.  I replied that the idea of a pill with no side effects was great but that nasal spray can kill you now-a-days and that I have a sensitive system when it comes to pills.  I explained that pills were an absolute last ditch, save my life, no alternative; Janis, Peggy, and Leah all tell me I need them, solution.  He tried to tell me that pills these days only have mild side effects.  Yeah, because the pill that screws with my brain is going to be less lethal than nasal spray, really? 
            After he reminded me to keep an open mind, yeah right, he continued with his questions.  I was distracted which probably made me look unfocused or more nuts, but I couldn’t stop staring at his socks.  He’s a skinny guy, and he had on a nice stripped button down shirt, iron grey pants that looked like they had been ironed ten or twelve times the crease was so perfect, these nice shoes, which were worn on the bottom, and then these socks.  They are the prissy pull up fancy socks that office guys wear.  They’re the kind of socks that if I was undressing a guy and took off his pants and he had those socks on I would laugh his ass out of the room.  I know they are dress socks, but come on.  These were black with diamond patterns on them and all I could do was stare.  I was wondering how far up his leg they went and then I thought I didn’t want to know the answer to that question.  For some reason those socks captivated me, and not in a good way. 
            The session ended on two sour notes for me.  The first was that Dr. Socks told me that I had to give my step-dad, Randy credit for stopping his drinking.  My first thought was, no I don’t.  My second was, don’t tell me what I’m supposed to think sock-boy.  The other thing that left me wondering if I made a poor choice in head doctor’s (by the way, I choose him by pulling his name out of a hat, literally, no joke and no I didn’t tell him that) was that after he finished his third page of writing he set his notebook down, and asked me if we had anything else to talk about.  You’re the shrink, you tell me.  When I got to the car I realized we had ended almost twenty minutes early.  I’m betting he billed Tri-Care for the full fifty-five minute session.  I have another appointment with him tomorrow.  I’m just wondering what kind of socks he’ll be wearing.  Like a good friend said to me when I told her about this mis-adventure, at least I’ll have something to blog about. 

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