The webcam isn’t right—too much wall and not enough of me. I’m fiddling with the laptop, cursing under my breath as my blood pressure, along with my frustration, steadily rises. It’s 5:00 PM. Oh great! Now it’s 5:01 PM.
One whole minute lost from this very expensive therapy session.
I hit the “Join” button and try to compose myself on the sofa.
“Hello,” I say stiffly, resisting the urge to burrow my neck into my sweater.
The therapist smiles warmly. I immediately want to disappear into myself.
“Hello, how are you today?” she asks.
And there it is—that question at the beginning of every therapy session: How are you?
Do I dive into the deepest, darkest depths of my being, or go with the small-talk-weather nonsense, which, honestly, I couldn’t care less about?
“I’m good, how about you?” I reply.
“I’m good, thank you. The weather is much better today, so I’m happy.”
-_- The irony.
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