A morning in the life of...

On the days that I see clients, I wear semi-professional gear. I don't know if any of you felt this way when you had to start wearing blazers or ties to work, but this brings out mixed feelings in me. I enjoy, in some senses, striding around in my high heels, tweed skirt, latte in hand. It feels like I am playing dress up. Sometimes I think I am fooling people, and they believe me to be in their little young professionals club. Other times I feel like a fraud and am convinced that everyone can see the girl who can't hold a coffee steady and squeals at spiders beneath my big sunglasses.

Today I felt rather styling with my black heels. I took two steps out the door, and realized that if I was going to make it through 'til tonight, I'd better slip some flip flops in my bag.

I lasted all the way 'til the coffee shop in my heels.
And nearly spilled coffee changing out of them.

You can dress me up, but you can't take me out!

***

At this coffee shop, while dumping some sugar into by cup, I listened to a mother explaining death to her two daughters, who were probably around the 5-7 range. She said "You girls know that when you die, your family never forgets you, right?" She then held up the obituaries, and pointed to a picture of a very young boy. She said "This boy has been in heaven for twenty years, and his daddy put this ad in the newspaper because he still loves him so much."

It was a strangely beautiful moment.

***

Two things that shouldn't exist: leather baseball caps and banana flavoured milk.

***

On the bus, coffee in hand, I sat down on a forward facing seat directly behind a woman on a sideways seat, who was writing on some formal looking reports. I was appalled to notice that, as was clearly visible over her shoulder, she was actually editing people's therapy reports on a bus! At first, I was hesitant as to what to do, as of course anyone who sat in her vicinity could and would read them- as I was doing at that very moment. However, as she pulled out a second report, and I was confronted with the full name of a father who was coping with the trauma of his child's death, I decided that I had to say something.

"Excuse me."

She looks at me, irritated, without a word.

"Just so you know, I can clearly read the report from over your shoulder, so you might want to be careful."

She turns around, and indignantly folds the paper over so the initial title with the client's contact information is covered, and continues taking notes. After the first page, she continues marking it up without even attempting to shield the information.

What I wanted to say, "Listen, you disrespectful bitch, I'm a therapist, too, so I know how unethical you are being. I can't believe anyone would present themselves as caring about someone's well-being, and then be callous enough to expose the confidential details about a grieving father's therapy to anyone and everyone on public transit. Furthermore, I can't believe that you aren't even ashamed that someone caught you doing this. I wish that I had stayed silent a moment longer so I could have read your (or whoever's report it was) identity on the last page, and reported you to your college, because that is probably sufficient to get your license revoked. You don't deserve to work with these people."

***

On the bright side, I am going to see the fantastically delightful Feist play tonight. I officially command you all to watch the clip below of My Moon My Man, which is my current favourite song!