So yesterday, as is my wont on a Monday, I went to my shrink appointment as Molly. On my way out of the house, my wife hands me a grocery list and says, "Pick this up on the way home, please." I look down at my outfit, nothing too crazy, jeans and a sweater but I am in heels and full makeup, then back at her and raise an eyebrow. "You'll be fine." she says, and off I go to my appointment. Grocery shopping as Molly after a therapy session? Good idea or best idea?
Well, perhaps not the best idea. See, every so often I have what I like to call a harrowing session wherein we dredge up a bunch of shit I don't like to think about, let alone talk about, and afterwards I feel like I've been whipped like a rented mule, emotionally speaking. Of course, yesterday was one of those sessions. I hobbled out to my car with this feeling of dread and anxiety, wanting only to go home and hide under my bed for the rest of the day, and came to the horrifying realization that I now had to go out in public, and mix with people, all dressed up as Molly without an ounce of my typical confidence.
You see, when I put Molly's clothes on it's almost like putting on body armor. Body armor made of drollery, sarcasm, a touch of cavalier bravado, satin, and lace, but armor nonetheless. Dressing up allows me, if not total freedom from the crippling self-loathing and anxiety I feel constantly, at least a temporary, and very cute, respite from it. My shrink, a wonderful, fashionable woman I've been seeing for over five years now, can be ruthless in her questioning scrutiny, and specializes in giving me just enough rope with which to hang myself. After a thorough working over, I felt flayed. Laid bare. My armor of drollery in tatters. I certainly didn't want to go grocery shopping, but then again I didn't want to answer for why I hadn't gone.
So, off I went. After, of course, a stop at home after realizing that I hadn't brought my wallet with me (cue music). At first, my brilliant idea was to hit a grocery where I don't usually shop. I picked this upscale looking place on Woodward, as I'd never been there before, and sauntered on in like I owned the place. Big mistake. The place had a terrible layout. Terrible. I couldn't find a goddamned thing in there thanks to their jumble of bins and lack of signage which I took as a typical white, suburban, upper-middle-class attempt at looking "quaint" and "Old Timey". My confusion slowly mutated into fury, and combined with the lack of things like soap and paper products and growing feelings of dread and anxiety I flipped out, left my cart in an aisle, and stalked back out into the rain in a huff.
There I was back in my car, hyperventilating, and realizing that I had no groceries. My options as I saw it were to go home, which I was loathe to do, or suck it up and go to my regular grocery. My regular grocery is an excellent little place that caters to regular shoppers and hard-core foodies like me. I've been shopping there for eight years, and know many of the cashiers, counter people, and managers by name. I pulled in, took a look at myself in my visor mirror and said, "You have got to be shitting me, girl" then headed on in whereupon I discovered that I'd left my grocery list at the last place (cue music again).
This was incredibly nerve-wracking. I was convinced that I'd be recognized, and I'm not sure that I wasn't, and all I wanted to do was get in, get my stuff, and get out. I did so pretty successfully, but I was ready to be home when I was done and, since I'd lost my list, I knew I hadn't picked up everything I was supposed to, but oh well. Finally I got home, got the car unloaded, and was able to relax in the safety and comfort of my little house with the wife and kid. My wife, who is pretty awesome by the way, was quick with the sympathy but also pointed out that perhaps going shopping dressed while already in an emotional turmoil and feeling generally like shit wasn't the smartest idea. That's some graduate level wifing right there.
She's right, though. I should have come home, changed, then gone back out in my guy clothes, which are a kind of armor in their own right. Oh well, live and learn, right? At least I looked good having a panic attack in the produce area.
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