I email my therapist, and then wait, endlessly refreshing gmail, for her to reply. I tell my friend, who tries to reassure me. ‘I think she’ll reply. Therapists are pretty reliable. It’s sort of part of their MO.’ ‘But it’s been three minutes,’ I point out. ‘Perhaps she’s dead. That’s so typical of her.’ My friend politely stops talking to me.
I decide to get dressed, and am gloriously happy to find a pair of shorts I bought in 1998. ‘These are probably so fashionable again,’ I think as I put them on. The people opposite me are moving out (I have decided to take no responsibility for this), and so I watch their removal men lift heavy things from upstairs bedrooms for a while. They smile at me, and I tell them, ‘I’m just waiting for an email.’
‘I hope my therapist hasn’t died,’ I tell my friend. She doesn’t reply. ‘Oh, and I hope you haven’t died also,’ I say to appease her. Still nothing.
I do some casual lunges to test the stretchiness of my retro shorts. Still no email. I notice that the movers can see me, and wave cheerily at them. ‘It’s very important to lunge,’ I tell them. ‘Also to bend your knees when lifting heavy objects.’ They are probably surprised that my neighbours are moving out, living opposite such a knowledgeable person.
I swallow a multivitamin, and brush my teeth. ‘Look how good I’m being,’ I tell my absent therapist. ‘A person as well-behaved as this really deserves an email. Unless you’re dead. I don’t want any creepy missives from beyond the grave.’
(I have a sneaking suspicion that my therapist would be a really effective and tenacious ghost. I start to send strong ‘stay away’ thoughts to her. I quickly modify these to ‘stay away if you are a ghost, otherwise reply please’ thoughts).
Still no email, so I pop outside to chat to the movers. ‘So, what you up to?’ I say in a friendly fashion. They stare at me. ‘Well, to be honest, I don’t really need to know. I just wanted a segue-way into complaining about my therapist.’ They continue to stare at me. ‘Do you think she’ll reply? I’m sure she’ll reply. Won’t she?’ The movers say nothing, so I pop back inside.
‘Why don’t you call her?’ my friend asks. ‘Um, I don’t want her to think I care,’ I explain rudely. ‘Gosh. I really couldn’t care less. She probably won’t reply.’ ‘Maybe’ my friend says dubiously. ‘You don’t think she’ll reply?’ I shout, panicked. ‘Are you serious? Oh my gosh, this is disastrous. She’s probably dead. This is a nightmare. I’m never emailing her ever again.’ ‘Well, obviously if she’s dead you won’t be able to,’ my friend points out. ‘SHE’S DEAD?’ I race out the door to ask the movers if I can go with them. If I move, it’ll be harder for her ghost to track me down. Though considering the difficulties she’s having with email, perhaps her haunting skills won’t be as impressive as I thought.
unfashionablylost 