Marlo hates Vincent, too.

I haven't seen a therapist since 1998. I'm not averse to therapy at all — on the contrary, I think it’s pretty much mandatory, if not for our own sakes than for the sakes of those around us. I’d even go so far as to say that it’s a subject of one of my Top 5 Most Overused — And Likely Inappropriate — Marlaisms (listed in no particular order):

* What was I saying again?
* OK, here’s the thing.
* WHATever.
* Have you thought about going to therapy?
* That apostrophe doesn’t go there.

My last therapist was a listener. Meaning, that’s all she did. She didn’t talk much, she didn’t share much insight, and she wore a lot of bows. More than the noticeable lack of psychoanalytic musings, the bows caused me to question her judgment. Anyway, after six months, she finally sat up and said the most wordy response I think I ever got out of her:

“I think your problem is that you don’t know who you are.”

I said, “Well, that’s what I said when I first came in here six months ago. I don’t know who I am and where I’m going with my life.”

Unfazed, she continued: “Why don’t we really look at you. Why don’t you [figuratively] come sit by me? Come sit by me, and let’s ask, ‘Who are you? Who IS Marlo?’”

I wanted to say that I didn’t know who Marlo was but I’d be thrilled if she’d pay my bill. Instead, I never went back.

(My favorite part of all this is that I don’t remember her name. Mmm, comeuppance.)

Anyway, I’m long overdue for some shrinkage. So I made an appointment at a reputable institute that employs 90-some therapists. The intake process lasts three weeks, after which they pair you up until you find someone you click with. On Tuesday, I had my first appointment.

During our conversation, the woman interviewing me asked me a list of basic questions: Do I get headaches? Do I get anxiety attacks? Do I have heart problems? Do I have trouble sleeping? That kind of thing. The entire conversation was really nice, very proactive, and I was clear-headed and –spoken the whole time. It wasn’t an emotional conversation at all, just very pragmatic. Then she asked me if I experience bouts of excessive crying. I said that last year was a bear and for a few months I did, but since about January or so, things have calmed down and I have myself under better control. Then I said that certain things come up that set me off, but they’re very natural things like, for instance, my grandmother passing away three weeks ago.

After I said that, I burst into tears.

So I was trying to explain that no, I don’t cry more than usual, and yes, I have my emotions under reasonable control — and while I was saying all this, I was heaving-sobbing and could barely get the words out through my leaking face.

Then we started to laugh for the ridiculousness of the situation. I really like this place.

What I’m hoping therapy will help me tackle is my unhinged anger over last night’s episode of “Project Runway.” Vincent over Alison?!? Ddt! Guh! Ack! Bbb! WHAT?!? What on earth will it take for the judges to eliminate him? Does Jeffrey have to design a distressed, frayed, cooler-than-you straightjacket, wrap Vincent in it and pitch him off the end of the runway? And what was that “Road Warrior” monstrosity that Angela made? I think the chick in the band of rebels that crashed Gary and Wyatt’s party in “Weird Science” wore it first. Either way, oogly.

There. I feel better. Therapy rules!

Also, I took about 510 pictures of the Strand bookstore and other fun bits on Tuesday. I’ll post 'em soon.

Note: Just returned from picking up lunch with Lisa and James (who's moving to L.A.! bastard!). The music piping through the speakers at Bread Market was a bossa nova-type remix of "It's a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood." Best.