Dear RogueRanters, my, my, my, it has been awhile. I mean, really, it has been awhile, and no, I haven’t been off gallivanting around the globe while you keep refreshing your browser in an attempt for an update . . .

I went to see my new therapist last week, because I’ve been dealing with a lot of crazy, seemingly-insane stuff, and that’s what you do when you just can’t take it anymore, right? You hug it out, talk it out, do-something-and-tack-on-”out”-to-the-end-of-it, because you’ve got to get whatever it is that has seeped into/under your skin “out “of your system. For a long time, a very, very long time (read: almost half a year), things have been far more than awry, and I’d like to think my pores are just a little tighter than everyone elses’; that stuff never gets into/under my skin, but heck, who am I kidding, I have giant pores. Like massive, gigantic pores that, if you squint just a little, you can see them beckoning to you from across the street. I don’t speak the language of pores, or therapists, for that matter, but I imagine that my pores have a knack for charming bad luck into my epidermis (fancy speak for skin, duh). Right at this very moment, considering I have a few “spots”  on my face (a much friendlier term than zits, I think), my pores are probably screaming, being the little whore-pores that they are, “Bad luck? Dirt? Grime? Bacteria? We’ve got vacancies, and yes, gentlemen, we take credit cards!”

As for my new therapist, I was pretty positive that I liked her. I mean, I’m not judgmental or anything, but her casual attire of skinny, boot cut jeans (medium rinse), runners, and a black 3/4 length sleeve cotton tee, made me feel very much like I was not being “therap-ized.”  Her curly hair looked moussed, or gelled, but not overly so in a crunchy, Jersey Shore way. I mean, non-threatening, informal attire in a space that the general public thinks of as staid and filled with the scent of dusty books and over-stuffed couches and leather armchairs, well, it’s kind of genius. And so, immediately, I had respect for her for not playing according to the general rules of all things therapist-y, you know?. Plus, she listened, which was nice, and also, my entire purpose for seeing her. So yeah, like I said, I was pretty positive that I liked her, but the clincher: as I stood up to walk out of the room and shake hands with her (is it weird that you shake hands with someone you just spilled your guts “out” to?), she took a look at my handbag, and said something along the lines of “that is an awesome bag.” Now, I don’t know why, but “awesome” is kind of one of the words that instantly takes me back to the nineties, which was, like, so perfect, because I found out later that Leona Naess finally had a video up on YouTube for her old song, a very late-90′s gem, “Charm Attack.” And for some reason, all things 90′s, including bad pop-rock songs by the Goo-Goo Dolls, bring me to a happy place.

When she made the comment about my awesome bag, which is like a pseudo-briefcase of sorts, it was like a bulb went off in my head, and I knew that I’d be back to see her next week.

I know I don’t generally write about hyper-personal stuff, and there’s a pretty solid chance that you’ll never hear about what my therapist and I talk(ed) about after this post, but I’m writing about it now, because, as cliche as it seems, people should never feel weird about going to therapy.

I’ve never been a huge believer in it. The thought of paying someone to listen to your troubles makes it seem like people probably just need to find better friends, but sometimes there’s stuff that you can’t tell your friends. Sometimes there’s stuff you want to keep all to yourself and not have your friends judge you by. Sometimes you just need a credible person to look you in the eye and tell you that you are not going crazy, it’s just that extremely crazy things are happening to you. So, even if I don’t really think therapy is all that good, desperate measures call for desperate times, and I’m now going to it. Not only am I going to it, but I’m happy to be going to it.

Therapy is one of those things that, if it works for you, or you go, even if it doesn’t, don’t ever feel ashamed about it, OK RogueRanters.

You should never, ever feel ashamed about handling your business and taking care of yourself. Got it?

Now, I sincerely hope you’re enjoying the Leona Naess video (posted above), and that you’ll sincerely enjoy my new haircut. Cuz, guess what, RogueRanters? I’m bald these days. Like not bicked, but just bald. See Exhibit A, below.

Remember that ol’ mohawk of mine? It’s gone.

Click here to finish reading Charm Attack(ed)