The walls are a bland shade of beige, the kind that aspires to be “calming” but just looks like old porridge. There’s a sad little fish tank in the corner with one lonely goldfish who always seems to be glaring at me. I swear it knows. It knows I am a walking disaster.
I glance at the clock. Ten minutes to go. Ten minutes before I have to sit opposite Phyllis Philpott, aka Pee-Pee (let’s not tell her I call her that behind her back) and admit that my most recent attempt at “living adventurously” resulted in feeling utterly humiliated.
I check my phone for any last-minute emergencies that might get me out of this, but of course, there’s nothing. Not a single text, not even a train delay I could exploit. Just my own impending doom.
I let out a long sigh and sink further into the uncomfortable chair.
I’ve been seeing Pee-Pee since my divorce three years ago. Back then, my biggest problem was figuring out how to rebuild my life after my husband left me for a woman he met on a meditation retreat. (She “taught him how to breathe,” apparently. I hope she’s still coaching him through it while he chokes on his own spit.)
Back then, therapy was about healing, rediscovering myself, and coming to terms with the fact that love isn’t always enough. Honestly, I should’ve started sooner. It might’ve saved my marriage if I'd had Pee-Pee to help me process the fact I can't have children.
Instead, I dragged Barry into every alternative therapy going, hoping one might magically conjure up a baby. He got fed up and went looking for fun elsewhere, rather than just talking to me.
But if I’ve learned anything over the past three years, it’s this: Barry and I were never really suited to each other. Still, just because we’re not compatible doesn’t mean I don’t despise him for cheating.Knobhead.
Nowadays, therapy is about… well, kind of still the same. I still don’t know who I am and what I want. Apparently, I am a slow learner. Yet again I am sitting in the waiting room, trying to figure out how to explain my latest life choice without making it sound too tragic.
For a brief, fleeting moment, I wonder if I should just… lie. I could make something up—talk about work stress, pretend I’ve taken up gambling, literally anything else.
But lying to a therapist seems like a whole new league of issues. And besides, Pee-Pee would know. She has that unsettling, all-seeing quality, like a wise old owl wrapped in a pastel cardigan. I’d get maybe three words in before she’dtilt her head, hum thoughtfully, and somehow extract the truth from my soul.
The receptionist, who has the enthusiasm of a woman who is counting the seconds until she can go home, peeks her head out from behind the desk.
“Ivy? Phyllis is ready for you.”
I plaster on a tight-lipped smile, shove my phone in my bag, and stand up like a woman being led to an interrogation.
Here we go. Time to tell my therapist that I got downgraded from a wild, reckless woman of passion to a mildly inconvenient speed bump on the way to Match of the Day.
I step into Pee-Pee’s office, which is just as beige and aggressively soothing as the waiting room. The walls are a soft eggshell-y colour, the armchairs are that expensive kind of beige that rich people put in rooms they never actually sit in, and there’s a small tray of herbal teas that I have never once seen anyone take.
Pee-Pee herself is perched in her usual spot, dressed in her signature cardigan-and-sensible-trousers combo. Today, the cardigan is a gentle mint green, which I suspect is meant to lull me into a false sense of security.
“Hello, Ivy,” she says, with that calm, knowing smile. “How are you this week?”
Oh, we’re starting with that, are we?
I sink into the chair opposite her, already feeling the walls close in. “Oh, you know,” I say breezily, waving a hand. “Can’t complain.”
She nods, waiting. She knows I am going to complain. It’s just a matterof when.
There’s a long pause. She looks at me. I look at the tiny wooden figurine of a tree on her coffee table, like maybe I can will myself into becoming one with it.
Pee-Pee tilts her head slightly.
I panic. “Actually, I’ve been thinking about getting into clay.”
She blinks. “Clay?”
“Yes. You know. Crafting sculptures, making mugs, all that.” I make a vaguely circular motion with my hands, as if this will somehow prove my deep and genuine passion for ceramics.
She nods again, but now with mild amusement. “That’s lovely, Ivy. What’s brought this on?”
Oh no. I have not prepared for follow-up questions. “Uh… mindfulness?”
Her lips twitch, as if she’s trying not to smile.
Damn it. She knows.Of course she does, Ivy, you sound like you’ve lost your marbles.
