Holden has little faith in his psychoanalyst guy, even though he's recovering from some kind of nervous breakdown. He's in a hospital, and it isn't because he's just had his appendix removed. All of the grief and worry of Holden's life has finally overwhelmed him, and he's trying to put his young life back together.
Unlike Holden, I have a great deal of faith in psychoanalyst guys. In fact, some of my favorite people are psychologists and counselors. This morning, I had a little visit with a good friend of mine, who also happens to be a licensed counselor. She's seen me through a lot of tough spots in my life, and I contacted her a couple days ago. Yes, my visit with her was more business than pleasure.
It's nothing I haven't been posting about for the last month or so. Money. Job. Insecurity. Insomnia. I needed to talk to someone, candidly. Someone who could offer me some objective, clear advice. My friend is really good at that. After our visit, I honestly felt better. Like I had a little power over my life. Options.
I've had a fairly good day. Cleaned the house. Worked with a poet colleague on poems for the literary magazine I help edit. Brought my daughter to dance team practice. Read a little. Took a nap. I'm relaxed. I'm sitting here watching Annie Hall now.
It's time for a fairy tale.
Once upon a time there was a little cobbler named Woody. He hated his job. He hated touching people's feet.
One day, into his shop strolled the palace psychiatrist, Lord Sigmund. Sigmund said to Woody, "Do you think can fix my riding boots? The heel broke off."
Woody took a step back from Sigmund. "I'm sorry," Woody said. "I can't touch your boots. They've been on your feet."
"But, you're a cobbler, " Sigmund said.
"Yeah," Woody said. "Exactly."
Sigmund took out his card and handed it to Woody. "You know," Sigmund said, "I'm a royal therapist. I may be able to help you with the little phobia of yours."
Woody shook his head. "No, no," he said. "I have a problem with intimacy, couches, doctor's offices, privacy, and doctors as well. It just wouldn't work out."
Sigmund shrugged. "What about my boots?" he said.
Woody nodded. "I suggest chopping off the heel off the other boot. Either that or give up riding horses. They're big animals with yellow teeth anyway. Don't trust them."
Sigmund picked up his boots from the counter. "In my professional opinion, Mr. Woody," he said, "you're crazy."
"And in my professional opinion," Woody said, "your feet are incredibly ugly."
Moral of the story: Watch out for foot fungus.
And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.
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| Is this guy's name Frodo? |
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