It’s been almost two weeks since Doc B. returned from her most recent ten-day meditation retreat. After these silent getaways, her radar is always set to high. And I mean like mind reading high. She’s all tuned in to the things I think, watch or read but don’t ever voice out loud.
Here’s a small example. My mom and her family have been doing a snail mail “round robin” since probably before I was born. One sibling writes down what’s going on in her life, puts it in an envelope and mails it to the next sibling. The next sibling adds his own letter and sends it on to the third sibling. This just keeps going on forever and you simply remove your original letter each time it comes back to you. I hardly ever think about this but yesterday I was reflecting on how cool it is that my mom has maintained this postal service-supporting practice for all these years and wouldn’t it be fun to do it with my siblings. And just think, if everyone did this, perhaps the USPS could be saved. Then at dinner last night, Doc B used “round robin” in a sentence. I don’t remember what sentence, but I had never once said the words.
Doc B is also ultra-patient when she comes back from retreats. I’ve had her 50th birthday present hanging on the bedroom wall for almost two weeks, hidden behind a still-salty-with-Hilton-Head-ocean-water beach towel. I told her she could look at it whenever she was ready or she could wait until her actual birthday. Not once has she expressed a desire to sneak a peek behind the curtain. I on the other hand would have pulled off the towel like it was attached to Bradley Cooper speaking French to me on his private yacht. Never mind that he was probably telling me to get off his boat.
Now, apparently when you combine Doc B’s patience and her mind-reading abilities, the result is nightmares. Here’s why. The other evening, unbeknownst to Doc B, I was watching my DVR’d first episode of the last season of Breaking Bad while she was meditating in the next room. I spent the full hour slashing, shooting, strangling and muffling my guilt all across the parched desert landscapes of Albuquerque. I’m sorry but I just couldn’t wait any longer to see what violent and drug-filled activity Walter White was up to. The next morning Doc B wakes up and tells me she had a dream that her towel-covered gift was a list, written on a blackboard, of how I was going to kill her and that I wouldn’t show it to her but she knew it was there.
Today, she finally decided to pull back the veil, just three days shy of her birthday. It’s about time; ’cause it was about to kill me that she wouldn’t look at it.