This is not a therapy session

I bumped into my therapist recently. (Several of you, who are under the entirely mistaken impression that I am pretty much stalking my therapist, will not be surprised, but I was). ‘Hello!’ I said delightedly. ‘How nice to see you.’

It was nice to see her. Or, it was at first. Talking to your therapist outside of a therapy session is a conversational minefield. I racked my brain for something interesting and innocuous to say.

‘So much rain,’ I began, inwardly cursing myself.

(My therapist is cool, and I want her to think I’m cool too. Not a socially inept idiot who is unable to hold a decent conversation. I want her to think that about her other  clients). My therapist made some pleasant remark in return, but I wasn’t listening. I was running through potential talking topics:

1. How are you?

This was out. Far too prying and personal. She would hate that.

2. Have you had a good weekend?

What am I? Her acolyte? (I am, secretly, but I was trying to play it cool). Also, as with (1), this suggested a level of intrusive nosiness that she would not appreciate.

3. Of all the clients you might have bumped into, are you most pleased to have met me?

In the end I resorted to what I usually do, and endlessly monologued about my own life. But whereas in sessions, I occasionally touch on something actually worth discussing, I was keen that my therapist did not feel that she had been conned into giving me a free session. So I talked exclusively and extensively about the most frivolous of topics.

And now, instead of thinking I’m cool, my therapist thinks I’m a self-obsessed idiot who cares disproportionately about trainer socks and Benetton adverts.

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