Skunk Karma: Part Three
I try to stick with my friends, even when they do what seems ridiculous. I figure it’s a deposit in the Friendship Bank, since I’ll have my share of ridiculous.
A friend decided to go into psychotherapy. This was good-ish. Therapy was a great idea. We all have our weaknesses, glitches, and places we’d like to deep-six, never to be seen by others. In my completely non-judgmental and supportive opinion, Louise would benefit enormously by growing up.
(Remember the stuff we might want to deep six? That’s mine, right there.)
I try to look supportive. I am dismayed as she describes her pending Regression Therapy. I’m thinking therapists should get to choose our therapy…an extreme concept, but perhaps a slightly more useful one? I know I’m blind as a bat to my own glaring flaws.
Exiting the womb was enough for me the first time around. The idea of stuffing myself back in as an adult (sorry mom) so I could come out again, only in a nicer, more incense and chanting, Goddess-y sort of way, was not appealing. But hey, I’m being a judgmental jerk, so I may as well own that, and own, while I’m at it, that I don’t know everything.
(I knew you’d be shocked by that one.)
I hoped my Not-Onboard-ness didn’t show. I’d heard about this form of therapy, and knew parts of it were a group process. I prayed she would not ask me to be there for the labor and birth. I was SO going to be busy that day.
Sooner or later I would have to cave and show up. I needed to pick a therapeutic event I could tolerate without unconscious eye-rolling. I did not want to risk devastating her delicate, reborn psyche.
The phone rings. “I’m eight now!”, Louise says in an excited, happy voice, sounding just like an 8-year-old. “That’s wonderful!”, I say, with genuine sincerity. I can do eight. I repeat internally: do not judge, do not judge. She’s happy. What is my problem?
“I’m sorry, what?” I say, to cover up the fact that I (the higher evolved being) am totally self-absorbed.
“I’m having a birthday party! I’ll be ten by next Saturday! Will you come?”, she asks.
I can do a couple of hours of ten. Hey. Cake!
“Of course!”, I say. ”I don’t have anything on Saturday.”
“Oh good. I was starting to worry you thought this was stupid”, Louise says, hitting my nail of shame on the head.
“It’s a camping party! Saturday, Lake Park, 9 a.m. Go-home time is Sunday at 4 o’clock. Bring presents, lots of presents! You know, age-specific ones.”
A two-day, overnight birthday party? I need damage control.
“I’ll be there”, I say, forgetting to ask the number of the campsite. “Is Saturday afternoon okay, or is that too late?”
“Oh it’s fine”, she squeals. “This is going to be the best birthday EV-er.”
A trained professional should definitely choose our therapy. I think a lot of problems could be avoided. Like gift shopping. And making paper mache placenta.