After a morning of slaving away at the office, I surfaced and went to the psychologist woman, who I've nicknamed the brain lady.
She's kind and listens to me, a breath of fresh air compared to the Buddha man who had the nerve to nod off the last time I saw him a week ago. I felt like I was talking to a piece of stale cheese. I started off by telling him about my guy crisis, how every single man is a serial commitment-phobic. How much I love the mystery man but how he won't respond to my phone calls and emails, and the man's head drops to his chin as if he were narcoleptic.
I felt as small as an ant. I'm paying someone to listen to me and they almost fall asleep. "I know that what I'm saying might sound boring to you, but it's still important to me," I said.
The brain lady asked me about the mystery man, about my weekend, I told her that I've been suffering from cabin fever and wanting to do something out of this world like fly to Paris on a whim. I want to find a new gig, a fun gig. I want to go to a place where I need not worry about taxes, dirty dishes, laundry and holding on to relationships. She listened and told me to go back and make a list of my goals, everything I want for myself, if I could create a life, how would I do so. I grinned at the thought of making another list. I am a list addict after all, which she doesn't know about me yet. Some things are meant to be kept a secret.
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