"Another case of practical insanity," thought Susan Helmand as the door closed behind the patient who had just passed through it. She shook her head and thought about how many of them she had seen over the years. The Psychology textbooks didn't have a name or description of it, but she had become more and more convinced that it was a specific condition, and one with many sufferers.
Practical insanity was her term for people who, particularly when it comes to relationships, do things that any rational person could easily see would lead to trouble. These patients led otherwise normal lives, showing up for work on time, doing an adequate job, engaging in hobbies or other pursuits, and yet seemed utterly clueless when it came to relating to another human being on intimate terms. Not only were they deficient in the ability to choose a prospective partner and to make good decisions on how to conduct the relationship, but they seemed incapable of learning or improving their skills in this area.
A woman she'd seen earlier that morning was having difficulty breaking off a relationship with a man who apparently had a drinking problem, a gambling problem, and a truth problem. But somehow, in spite of his on-again, off-again attentions and the fact that every single 2 hour trip so they could be together had been made by her, not him, she had convinced herself that she loved him and that the two of them "had something special." No word yet on what exactly was special about it, but whatever it was kept her making a fool of herself over and over again. A normal woman would have long since tired of that nonsense and been on to greener pastures.
The one who had just left the office wasn't much better off. She was dating a man she'd met online who lived four hours away. Difficult, but not unheard of, and not always unsuccessful. This one though was a Wiccan. Hearing that, she decided that she too was a Wiccan. Compatibility, or at least the willingness to take on the other person's interests – fine. Unfortunately, in this case, it opened her to charges, by the girls in his coven, of putting him under a spell and sending hexes and bad mojo against them. And her prince charming believed it and she fought valiantly to hold onto him, even after learning that he was susceptible to such nonsense, even after learning he was screwing everything he could catch, and even after finding out that just about everything he'd told her about his life was a lie and that his parents were still supporting him in his 40s. She was in love too. In love with what? A version of a person that she knew didn't even exist. Practical insanity.
There was probably a best seller in here somewhere if she could find the time to write it, but that time wouldn't be today. Her son, Jim, was going to swing by and give her a ride to the dealer where her car would, hopefully, be ready for pickup. Assuming it was, perhaps they'd have a bite to eat and catch a movie. She hadn't seen a lot of him since he'd moved out. Not that he'd gone far, he was finishing up grad school across town, but he had a life of his own and pursuing it took time.
Besides, it's not as though she'd been the most attentive of mothers, certainly no June Cleaver. During his formative years, she'd been busy forming other, more troubled minds. Her practice had flourished and she'd written successfully in several journals of psychiatry before hitting the best seller list with a work in the self-help genre. She was respected in her field, accomplished in her practice, and a published author who had achieved modest commercial success.
She was also alone since the divorce. Jim's father had also been a psychiatrist. He'd never had quite the same drive she did and in time he grew to resent her achievements. There were probably a lot of other reasons, but she didn't spend a lot of time analyzing herself or her marriage. There's no money in that and it tends to make a person a little too introspective for her taste. At any rate, Frank was gone. She and her Italian Mastiff, Sig were the only inhabitants of the house her book deal had paid for.
It was a nice enough house in a nice enough neighborhood. It wasn't pretentious, didn't make her look like a climber, but at the same time had all the comforts one might expect at a level of affluence that fell just short of having a live-in maid. Isabelle came twice a week and that was plenty, thank you. How much help could one person living alone really need anyway?
Sunlight glinted off a moving windshield outside her window and she saw that Jim had arrived a few minutes early. That was a pleasant surprise. Usually he was running late, arriving with some excuse about having been busy or having lost track of time. She didn't really mind. He'd inherited her urge to get things done and his father's inattention to detail. There didn't seem to be much remedy for it, but she was pleased not to have to listen to the song and dance today.
Stepping out onto the curb she felt a whisper of breeze under her skirt, caressing her naked thighs and reminding her she'd left her underwear at home today. It wasn't an everyday thing, just occasional, and the occasion was usually a need to be reminded she was a woman. She chuckled wryly. Was she flirting with herself? She certainly didn't flirt with anyone else. Better jot some notes on this, might make a chapter, or at least a paragraph or two, in the next book.
"Hey mom. I finished a paper earlier than expected so I came on over. Thought I'd surprise you by being early for once."
