Lemons Into Lemonade

It's the old adage.   You get thrown lemons.  You make lemonade.

But what happens if your juicer is broken?  What the heck are you supposed to do then?

And, let's face it, folks.   There are times in all of our lives when, unfortunately, our juicers break down.  And you have to use somebody else's.

What the hell ya talkin' about Willis...I mean, Len?

This is going to be one from the depths of this writer.  My life as an open blog.  The curtains part.  You see what's going on backstage.

The last year or so, I've been thrown some lemons.  Not constantly, but I have endured more than my share of Sunkists laying on the coconut, if we want to keep with the tropical fruit theme.  Nothing terribly earth shattering but enough to make you think....hmmm.  Trust me.  I'm not reaching for the booze or the pills or humming anything from a 1968 Janis Joplin album.  But I'm looking at the yellow fruit strewn around me and saying....how come I can't now direct all this into one of those Kool Aid pitchers with the happy and empty smile on it.

Yep, I made a discovery.  My juicer was broken.

When I had my annual physical with my internist in December, we go all over my body.  Outside the head and in it.  I totally I had some things on my mind and that this might be the single moment in my life where I needed to talk to somebody other than a friend.  I know lots of folks who have done this already.  Sometimes, I'm the one making the suggestion myself.  

Now I needed somebody to make that suggestion to me.  And my internist did.  A bonafide reference and everything.

I twirled the piece of paper and phone number in my hand for weeks.  Here I was, actually entering into my own very special episode of "The Bob Newhart Show."  

"So, whatcha got, Hartley?"

Or something like that.

I finally made the appointment and then entered into the sterile waiting room.  It was all eerily quiet.  Open minds apparently don't make a lot of noise.

Finally ushered into the mental chamber of horrors, it was standard staging from the prop department.  Lots of fancy books on shelves.  A tall reclining chair.  A smaller reclining chair.  A couch that was so low to the floor it might have been featured in "Flower Drum Song."  And, on the coffee table, the box of tissues.  I noted it was not Kleenex.  A Costco brand.  One point off for the psychologist.

I moved to sit in the tall reclining chair.  That looked most comfortable.

"Oh, no, that's where I sit."

Okay, Doc, if you want to be territorial.....

I sat in the smaller chair.  Its swivel was slightly unhinged.  But I'm guessing there have been a lot of broken hinges in this room.

"So what brings you here?"

I wanted to say "a Toyota Highlander," but refrained.  N'yuk, n'yuk.  We had already gotten off on the wrong foot with my inappropriate seating choice.

I went with the straight answer.

Feeling compromised by my knees last year.

Being a bit more conscious of my age.

The constant dueling of parental DNA in my body.

Predictably, he dove in on the latter as it was likely Chapter 1 in his Psych textbook.

I started to talk and babble, even though he was clearly becoming not my ideal choice for a doctor of his ilk.  A little older than I wanted.  His eyebrows kept going up and down like the Tower of Terror ride at California Adventure.  

And he blinked a lot.   I wanted to know the story about this nervous tic of his.  But, who was I to ask?

As I prattled on, I suddenly realized what I was relating to him.  Stories about my parents and my grandparents and my childhood.

For Pete's sake, I'm going over past entries in my Sunday Memory Drawer.   The only difference was I could actually see the reaction of the person on the other side.  

We made a follow-up visit for the next week and, this time, I didn't choose the wrong chair.  Again, he asked one question....and out come the stories posted on the Sunday Memory Drawer about two years ago.  Except this blog is free and this guy wasn't.

"Two sessions, that will be four hundred dollars total."

Gasp.  Now who's crazy??

I guess you really have to be nuts to go to a psychologist.  

I told him that, at these prices, I needed to look at my health coverage.   Of course, he was out-of-network.  Apparently, Aetna doesn't cover doctors with arching eyebrows.  Meanwhile, my deductible for him would be quite high.  

I'm already paying $150 a week for two sessions with my physical trainer.  That's wellness for the body.   The mind would be breaking my piggy bank.

I will look for a younger psychologist with better facial features and one that is in my health network.  In the meantime, I realized that my processing of life has been ongoing anyway.  Every Sunday and other days of the week.   On this blog.

I will keep writing.  And perhaps feel better that way.

Dinner last night:  Bacon and cheese frittata.