I was the last appointment of the year, apparently. I had my choice of chairs and tattered copies of “Field & Stream” in the abandoned waiting room. The receptionist was playing Bejeweled Blitz and attempting Uri Geller-like mind games to move the clock forward toward quitting time. Even my therapist seemed hurried, her usual dulcet tones replaced by an efficient clip as she worked through her list of questions for my semi-annual med check.
Meds working for you? Yep. Moods been OK? Yep (hoping she wouldn’t read my blog). Need refills? Yep.
As we were about to wrap up, she asked if I’d made any New Year’s resolutions. I got excited, because I HAD.
Me: Yes! I’m getting a tattoo!
Therapist: Is that really a resolution?
Me: Why not? I resolve to get a tattoo. What’s not resolutiony about that?
And then, in a whole turning-the-tables thing, I asked her a question.
Me: Did you make any resolutions?
Therapist (uncomfortably): Oh. Yes. I made one.
Me: Give it up! What is it?
Therapist: Oh. I can’t tell anyone. Just something I need to do every day for self-improvement.
Me: Huh. A secret resolution. Kind of hard for the rest of us to measure your success then, isn’t it?
Therapist: Um, not really. I just need to do it. Every day. For self-improvement.
So of course immediately I’m thinking masturbation. And she’s calling me out on a tattoo, like that’s not a real resolution.
So I hold my fist up chest level, the international symbol for fist bump — popularized by the President and First Lady — in resolution solidarity. She stares at my outstretched fist.
Therapist: What is this?
Me: It’s a fist bump. C’mon, don’t leave me hanging! You just tap your fist against it. All the homies are doing it.
Therapist (awkwardly and lightly taps fist against mine, hitting maybe two of my knuckles, in the worst most whitest fist bump ever): Huh.
And then she tripled my medications and ushered me out the door.
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Ringing in the New Year with my yeah write blogging challenge family. Join us! Open grid this week.