After a particularly grueling yoga session, I headed across town avoiding the construction on 42nd street and arrived just in time for my psychiatrist appointment. We discussed my usual personal foibles and anxieties -- I assuring Dr. Help Me my liver could handle a higher dose of medication, he cautioning I could not. He recommended I try to get more sleep, I scoffed and told him I'd get right to it as soon as I picked up my dry cleaning, had my oil changed and wrote my personal memoirs. Then I tried to regain my composure before humbly asking if he had any free samples of my prescription I could have since I was trying to save my money to purchase a new pair of "come hither" jeans that fit me like a too tight leather glove. He begrudgingly acquiesced so long as I tried to find a balance between my work life, my social life, sleep and mania. No problem. I headed "Downtown" where, according to Petula Clark, "You can forget all your troubles, forget all your cares." But on the way, I had an aching feeling I was supposed to be someplace. Then it dawned on my -- happy and successful. . . oh well, numb and medicated often do the trick. As I drove around aimlessly somewhere between inner peace and out-of-body experience I wondered, how can we be all things to all people? How can we be all things to ourselves? In a world that sends mixed messages and dictates what life should be like, is there any way to know which messages are meant for us?
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