In case you live in a parallel universe, have toddlers, have a baby, have teenagers or been in your car too long and are having a hard time recalling exactly what day it is, I'll step in and save you. It's Wednesday.
I love Wednesdays. Not because they're the beginning of the end of the week. Not because they remind me I only have two more tedious, grinding days left in which I have to deal with the brainless dogs by myself. Not because Wednesday means the weekend is coming and I get to party. I don't party. Partying for me is locking myself in my nice little bedroom, no animals, teenagers, young adults or horny men allowed. Just me and the PBR or the Civil War or whatever book I haven't had time to finish, knitting and vodka smoothies optional. Oh, god, I can feel my muscles relaxing just thinking about it.
But no, I love Wednesdays, because I get to see my therapist. I love my therapist. More importantly, my therapist loves me. She really does. She loves me as much as my insurance and my co-pay tell her too. Which is quite a bit. By the middle of the week I need that unconditional love, even if I have to pay for it. Besides, I can't really tell from her demeanor or her body language that she doesn't enjoy spending time with me. She always looks happy to see me. She always listens intently to whatever I want to talk about. And she never takes notes! I have her complete attention. No eye-rolling, no interruptions, no "I have to go to the bathroom.", no "Can we talk about this later, when I can concentrate? Say.., in 6 months?", no "Dear god, do we have to have this discussion again?".
Nope, she smiles at me. Laughs at my jokes or my sarcasm. Nods in all the appropriate places. Doesn't enter my personal space, unlike the freaking dogs, libido bound husband or I left my brains in fourth grade teenagers. She makes me feel special, even when I'm complaining about my damn roses blooming in November when they wouldn't in July.
The very best part of my Wednesday with Holly, I can wear anything I want. Anything. I wear my pajama pants and she never says anything. Sweats with stains, perfectly okay. Shirts inside out, no problem. I could probably wear a nightgown and get away with it. I haven't tried it yet but that's because..., well forget that statement.
Holly, she is always perfectly dressed, from head to toe. Her clothes match her shoes, match her earrings, match her necklaces. She's a walking fashion plate. But she never makes me feel uncomfortable. She's gone so far as to comment on the nice plaid on my pajama pants.
Wednesdays, what could be better? Holly, pajama pants and an hour of complete freedom.
Did I mention I can bring my woobie if I want?