The other day I had a doctor’s appointment and, unlike the many appointments I had scheduled before, I kept this one—this particular appointment scheduled for a 60 minute chat with Mike. I avoid Mike, nice as he is, because he’s my shrink and seeing him seems to equate with the idea that there is something seriously wrong in neuron land; definitely not a highlight of my resume, typed in bookman old style and sandwiched in between “education” and “awards and accomplishments”. I have the appointment on my dry erase calendar, simply showing “Mike 2:30pm” as if the mental acuity police were going to enter my kitchen and exclaim “aha, we knew you were seeing a shrink!” as they stood in front of my rental refrigerator in my rental house.

I rent because it’s temporary you know—or so Mike says. If I buy, I commit and somewhere along the two-track dirt road into my emotional abyss there are road signs such as “what the hell is really going on here?” and “Mother speed-bump ahead” The real kicker is that only Mike can read them. Does that make him a psychological GPS? I have taken to buying the three-pack specials of smokes now… can’t commit to quitting I suppose, but not buying the cartons could suggest that I can’t commit to continuing either. My memberships to things are a cancel-at-any-time option—the gym, DVD clubs, blah, blah. No solid commitments there, quit anytime I want.

So anyway, I went to see Mike, he in his khaki’s and Hawaiian shirt, boat shoes with no socks—welcome to southwest Florida where we all are laid back; nothin’ serious ya know mon! He seemed lost at first—I already knew from the bitchy receptionist that the computers were down so he couldn’t see me. I felt an evil pleasure and contrived three ways to fuck with him within a minute or so, but I didn’t. I sat there bored instead—“l’ennui” echoing in my head. My yawn gave me away apparently so I covered my boredom with (I’m just tired Dr. Khaki Hawaiian guy-bet you have a penis extension sports car, convertible no doubt-but I ain’t payin’ the payments, I’m at the VA and looking at you is free!) “I’m just tired Mike”. I learned that French expression from a blurb in the newspaper; the arts section of The Naples Daily News… I like it