The snow outside my window has gone as quickly as it came. It is dark, dreary, rainy and there is a lot on my list to do. Before I get to it, though, I am sitting with a cup of coffee looking out over the neighborhood where I live now, and I am thinking of a time when I lived 3 miles east of here.
Many years ago, so many in fact that I lived down the block from Wrigley Field and could hear Harry Caray sing "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" as clear as a broken bell in my bathroom, I saw this lovely, sweet-faced therapist in a broken down building downtown.
Of course, at the time, I made up some chronic but tolerable condition that required bi-weekly physical therapy or something like that to tell my friends and family and co-workers so that I didn't have explain that I was sitting in hard chair with a pilly orange cushion and talking to a therapist every other Thursday. But I've evolved since then. Now I freely tell all of the interwebs about my well-worn and diversified portfolio of therapy. The thing is, I had to see the men I worked with at the engineering firm back then every day and you all, I can throw this out to and then politely close my laptop and choose to ignore the fact you now know I am and perhaps always have been teetering on the edge of a wackadoodle mess. Well, a teetering only because I am a wackadoodle in fabulous shoes that are ridiculously high-heeled.
(Are you thinking, "Engineering firm? What the --?! She's an engineer AND a blogger?! Is that even humanely possibly in one lifetime? The answer is...probably not. But also, I just answered the phone and commandeered the bathroom keys and intercom, which was a big freaking deal when you work with an office full of brilliantly absent-minded men who design heating systems for skyscrapers and what-not).
Back to the nice lady sitting across from me in the chair that was bound to have sticky remnant of tears and duct tape on it somewhere. This therapist was really an art therapist, and even more specific than that, really an art therapist for kids. But it was a sliding scale kind of place and she was who I got during what I was told was a particularly busy season for young, teetering women like me.
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is a single mama in the city, super-savvy editor, writer, video host and shameless shoe whore.
Friday, December 12, 2008 