I just consulted my Dictionary of the Saints and there is no Patron Saint of Gratitude listed. Maybe she or he is going incognito, but there is definitely a presence out there because any time I start having one of my self-indulgent, poor-me moments, I am busted by the Patron Saint of Gratitude. I think I’ll call her St. Tude. This happens about once every 1.5 years, like the day I was on my way to the therapist in 2015, and on Valentine’s Day 2014.
I was so happy to be strolling in the sunshine, down the wide concrete sidewalk to the therapist’s office yesterday. (My family back east will be gasping over this, as if I’ve just admitted to being criminally insane.)
But in Los Angeles, we love our therapists. Mine is more like a girlfriend than anything else. OK, a girlfriend I’m paying to listen to me, non-stop for an hour, but a girlfriend nevertheless. Continue reading