I normally spend my Friday lunch hour on the couch at my therapist’s office.  I’ve been seeing her for a while and she is obviously earning her money.  She is sometimes nice to me, sometimes tough on me, and sometimes tells me to cut the crap.  Not, like, out loud, but yeah, it’s not hard to figure it out.  She is ultra-professional and, even though she is probably my age or a bit younger, and we would totally be best friends in real life, she never suggests that we grab a margarita instead, or goes along with my piteous rants, even though OF COURSE she wants to.  And it helps that she knew him, and that she spent a few hours with us together, which gives her some insight.  She refrains from saying things like ‘he is a huge ass and you are better off’ (remember, she is professional.)

Not that I spend all my time in there talking about this issue and this year.  I don’t, there are plenty of things in life to work through, and it’s nice to have someone impartial.  I don’t usually go around telling people I go to therapy, but lately I don’t really care.  It helps, I’m happy with it, and I frankly don’t care about other people’s opinions about it.  I think she secretly says “go girl” in her head when I’m making progress (it happens). I work hard in there, but I also secretly study her shoes and then try to find them on the internet after I leave.  So… maybe there’s more work to be done.

Sometimes I think I’m making huge progress.  Then I realize that people who are getting over it probably didn’t spend 45 minutes on hetexted.com last night clicking “He’s not into you” on each entry and yelling at the computer.  Obviously I can see right through that shit.  I can also measure progress at work, where I am now very engaged and hardly ever distracted.  Well, hardly ever feels more generous than deserved.  One of my colleagues was in my office the other day talking and he revealed that his wife had just suffered a miscarriage.  I immediately started crying, which I think gives me an A for empathy, a C for professionalism and probably somewhere around a D- for sanity.  He did not seem to mind, maybe he just thinks I’m really nice (like HR people are supposed to be, but secretly NEVER are.)  Let’s go with that.