Behind My Mask

February 25th, 2008

* I’m riveted by “In Treatment,” HBO’s drama about therapy, but at the same time, it makes me squirm with discomfort. The confessions of hot sex seem like bourgeois porn, and the psychodramas between patient and therapist sometimes come across as simply self-indulgent. I know it’s supposed to be close to the real thing, with shrink and shrinked scraping away pretensions to get to the raw places, but it all seems so white, so privileged, so set in granite-counter land. God knows I’ve been through plenty of those sessions, but even in the midst of my own most dire problems, it often sounded embarrassingly jejeune to my own ears. Of course, that’s the cue for my therapist to say I’m in denial.
* I hate to admit this, but I don’t like New Orleans, or crawfish, or Emeril, or Dixieland Jazz, or Bourbon Street, or chickory in my coffee. I spent four days there recently and I never fit in. I want to have the louche, cool personality that loves the city’s Tennessee Williams-decadence, but I just felt overwhelmingly sad the whole time I was there. I still can’t figure out why.
* The teenager in “Juno” was so hip she made me feel unutterably stupid. Kind of like I feel when I listen to Barack Obama. Deep inside, I will always be the girl whose clothes don’t fit right, who doesn’t have witty repartee, the one who is standing by the wall when the music starts, the one who is standing by the wall when the music ends.