by Carrie
Diary of A Rich Girl – Chapter 120
I’ve been having trouble sleeping. It’s been the usual tossing and turning. An hour of shut-eye and then four hours of staring into darkness, ten minutes of make believe sleep and another four hours of sheet grinding. A colleague of mine at work, well I don’t know if she’s really a colleague, I mean I own the company, but she’s a good friend and we spend lots of hours talking, and so she suggested I go see someone who could help.
It’s not that I need a therapist. We all have our problems, even therapists, despite their airs, I mean I’m just sick of people who think they have all the answers, and then you find out what little twits they are…I went.
Candice, my friend, my colleague, said I should dress business-like, because I’m model-pretty; it would be a good idea not to look all that great. “You mean this therapist tried to hit on you?” Candice, no ugly duckling herself, said, “You want him to focus on your problems or your bod…?
I sat in the therapists waiting room for god knows how long. I was supposed to be seen at 5 pm; it was the earliest I could make it. I was surrounded by golf magazines, men’s health magazines, I was beginning to wonder if he only had male clients, or is it patients, no clients, I mean he’s not a doctor.
So…I read all about the short swing, the pivot of the hips and standing ahead of the ball. I was totally board to death. I can’t stand golf. Who cares about some tiger in the woods. I reached for National Geographic for the third time and flipped the pages.
And even though there was no one there I straightened out my business skirt and jacket to make sure I looked nice and proper. I’d been a pretty good girl as of late. My last fling with Little John had run its course again. Though I did think about him, only to remind myself what a fool he makes of me, using me, promising me, then leading me on. But I’m a good girl and we all make mistakes, even good girls. That’s just life…The door opened.
The therapist stood by the door, eyebrows up to say “Are you who you think I am?” I put on a phony smile, not to be phony, but it’s hard to smile at someone who’s not smiling at you. His seriousness, or pretense, was hard to gauge. I stood up. He opened the door wider. He looked me up and down. I wasn’t too sure if he recognized me from my Vogue days or he was deciding what kind of cure I was going to get. “Are you Caroline Dupree?” Of course I am.
I smiled. He smiled back. He stepped aside. I took that to mean that I should enter. I did and felt his eyes on my back. He said, “Sit on the couch.” I turned back. I wanted to know if that was an order or a requirement. The look on his face said it was both. I sat on the big leather old fashioned. Six other people could have joined me.
