I started going to a new shrink. She’s very expensive and wore white, so far, on all three visits. Very linen-y and soft and reserved. But insightful enough that I’m compelled to return for at least one more session.
So she had a little vacation last week. I came into my appointment and asked how her trip was. “Fine,” she said.
I asked where she went. She said she wouldn’t tell me because she doesn’t share personal information with her clients, and that I’d learn who she was through her reactions and our conversations. That she’d rather use the time to talk about me and what I was going through. That she’d rather I imagine where she’d been.
So I said OK, trying to not feel too scolded.
Our 45-minute “hour” was up, and as she was writing my receipt, I glanced down at her desk and saw an envelope with a familiar name and mailing address on it. And I blurted out, before the brain filter could engage, “Hey, Dr. [Kenny Rogers]* is my gynecologist too!”
She was clearly taken aback, and kind of ignored my comment with a “huh” sound. She did a stealth shuffle of papers and covered the envelope.
Then I apologized by way of saying, “his name just jumped out at me,” or something equally lame.
I guess that’s what happens when you spend 45 minutes trying to be unguarded. It’s hard to shift back.
* My GYN, of course, is not Kenny Rogers. But he’s that type. Just a little less gritty and with very, very soft hands.