pt. 1

I never believed in love until I fell into it. It had always been: you’re too fat, too tall, too short, too skinny, too mannish, too girlie, too blonde, too brunette, too this, too that. I had seen it all in my line of work. I’m a psychoanalyst. I prefer this term of psychotherapist that my collogues go with. That term doesn’t seem to work. I don’t think I provide anyone with any sort of therapy at all. I prefer to think that I analyze what people think and feel and try to make it more understandable to them. Not that all things are understandable.
For instance, I had a patient who used to have reoccurring dreams about having sex with a chipmunk. That one I never figured out - unless he was worried that his member wasn’t big enough. If that was the case, then I could kind of see it.
When I was about 30, I started to notice that a majority of the female patients seemed to all have issues with this thing called ‘love.’ Never having experienced anything but the physical side of this anomaly, I was at a loss as to how to really help them. It usually ended up with me telling them to not settle for a man who didn’t like them for them. That seemed to help quite a few of them.
At least until one rather warm March afternoon. I had seen this client – Sarah M. – a few times. We were still getting to the bottom of her deeply seeded father issues when she came into the office in a strange fashion. Not that there was anything really strange about her appearance if you didn’t know her. Seeing her on the street, you’d probably think her rather pretty. She had a slight bounce in her step, and a joy in the air around her. I must admit, I was amazed to see her like this. The sundress she was sporting flowed beautifully around her. The strappy sandals seemed to emphasis the delicateness of her dainty fee. The smile she wore certainly did brighten the room. I was awestruck. I asked her if anything had changed to create such a metamorphosis. She replied with her rose red lips in a euphoric smile one word. Love.
‘Love? If love had this much power, I’m out of job!’ I thought as I looked at her happily sitting on the couch. The rest of the session went by rather quickly for her, and torturously slowly for me. All she wanted to talk about was her new beau – Brad. He was a stockbroker with a lot of money and he loved her laugh. Also he was great in bed and knew a fair bit about wine and other Italian things…like pizza and lasagna. I was happy for her, I was, but I was also terribly confused. I wished her luck and didn’t see her until 6 months later when Brad broke up with her. At that time, she came sulking into my office wearing clothes that were too big with bags under her eyes. By then the weather was turning cold, but nothing could compare with the coldness of her gaze. That session was torturously slow for both of us. I put her on suicide watch that day and prescribed something that would hopefully help.
If that’s the power of love, then it may be better to never find it. If it works, you’ll be in some form of happiness for life, but if it doesn’t, then you might just jump in front of an oncoming train to end the endless pain that you’re feeling.
Perhaps college frat boys have the right theory – fuck ‘em and leave ‘em. No emotional attachments, no nothing, just a good old romp in the hay and a sayonara. No strings, no awkward moments, no promises, no lies. The conclusion I came to yesterday. Now, today, staring out the window of my 12th story office over a cold and snow filled city I see no reason to change it. I’ve yet to meet a man who held my interest past appetizers, and I highly doubted I would. I was grinning as I thought about the last man I had met. It was good. A little short, but overall satisfying. I was just remembering the good part when my phone rang. It was one of those old jobs that often surprise new clients. I like the classic look of ‘20’s telephones and got one as soon as I got a secretary. The phone had nothing fancy on it like hold and forwarding or 3-way feature, and that is what I liked about it. Simple. Straightforward. Chic. Smooth. Classic. Not to mention long where it counts and easy to use. It made me feel kind of like Fay Wray. Perhaps the phone outdated the actress, but that fact had never tainted my feelings.
The classic ring of the telephone pulled me away from my unprofessional thoughts and into the present. I picked it up with a slight sigh.
“Yes?”
“Your 3 o’clock is here, ma’am,” my bright but rather lost secretary said. I had picked the girl for a very good reason – she was too dumb to excel at much, but efficient enough to get the job done well. I considered myself lucky. Lucky she was so good and what she did, and lucky that she was too dumb to realize she deserved better.
“Alright, show him in,” I curtly said and hung up the phone. My 3 o’clock was a new client. A man known as O.. As a psychoanalyst I had gotten used to seeing some strange things. This was no exception. It wasn’t as common as other things, but a handful of my clients had wanted to go by nicknames. Either it was to hide the fact they were seeing me to loved or co-workers, or just because they preferred being called Snicker doodle (an actual nickname, mind) I’m not sure. I find it’s best to go along with what they want. After all – who am I to pass judgment on those who put food on my table and wine in my cellar? If they wanted to be called ‘fuck face’ or ‘shit head’ I’d do it. Perhaps not loudly, but I’d do it.