By:  Karin Smithson

I went to a cocktail party last weekend and had an experience that has become all too familiar.  My husband sees a guy that he knows from school, and he and I are standing with them in conversation.  Inevitably, my husband and the other gentleman will start discussing his real estate work, which, of course, I am proud of, and I listen politely, offering my concurrent whining about the economy while beaming in pride over my husband’s work.  Meanwhile, the only other woman and I are left standing there holding our drinks, balancing on our heels, checking out the fashions walking the room and feeling like the 3rd and 4th wheels on a 2-wheeled bike: unnecessary but helpful if needed during a fall.  Within ten minutes I have answered one question about my newborn twins (the most beautiful twin babies on the face of the earth), and she, her three, agreeing that child-rearing is the most difficult job in the world.  News flash.  I guess it would be polite to assume that I don’t have anything else going on in my life other than rearing my most-precious-children-God-gave-breath-to, but it is always nice if a gentleman would ask.  (And on most days, I don’t, by the way.)

Let me interrupt myself here to tell you that last time that I thought someone at a party actually asked me what I did was last summer.  I was pregnant, and I was thrilled to be asked a professional question since it had not happened since my waist size surpassed my hips.  I lifted my head, beamed with surprise, and launched into a proud monologue about my practice …  Ah, but I was mistaken, although I thought I heard, “What do you do?” the guy actually said, “When are you due?”  Imagine my embarrassment after I balanced my water on my belly and commenced to rambling before the fellow got frustratingly bored, corrected me, and wanted to know “when I was DUE?”  4 weeks.  Twins.  A boy and a girl. Yes, I’m huge.  Thanks for asking.
True story.  I digress … back to the cocktail party …

So I’m standing there, swizzling my drink, humming the Prince song that I heard on the drive over (“Raaaaaspberry beret…”), when I realize that the girl to my left knew what I did professionally.  This is phase two of what can happen to me at a cocktail party …  Just after the other gentleman spouted a joke about wishing he had a bubblegum machine filled with Xanax to deal with the stock market fluctuations, the other sweet mother dear piped in, “Oh gosh, you know Karin’s a therapist – I bet she could help you out!”

And there I stand again in another all too familiar moment, with what feels like a neon sign has erupted over my head with “BRAIN READER” flashing. There are now sets of scared eyes staring back at me over half-full wine glasses.  I start searching my mind, trying to come up with something non-threatening to say to the now nervous company.  This has always thrown me off, as it seems that people suddenly think I have ESP or am wearing those X-Ray-I-Can-See-You-Naked-Glasses and staring directly at them.  I know that I have to put people at ease, since I am truly no smarter than they are, and I usually say my standard, “Well, yes, that is right, but I’m off the clock right now, so don’t worry!”  But then, people react after computing in their minds what they think I am doing as I stand there scanning the room and them, seemingly with x-ray goggles.

Here’s the funny and interesting twist (which, in true disclosure, I find intriguing because of my research on gender issues).  It is usually the ‘fellas’ that seem to be the most anxious by my new-found title when my cover gets blown.  While the women usually offer a genuinely female transparent, “Oh, gosh, you should do a study on my family! You’d have a lot to analyze!” Or, “You should hear about my life – I’m telling you, you could write a book on it!”  Or, even better, they find a way to get me alone within the next hour to tell me their family’s secrets and ask for guidance over their brother with bi-polar disorder or their son who was caught last weekend with a joint in his cargo pants.  (Believe me, everyone has a secret in the family … even therapists.)  And this is always a compliment to me, as I am a therapist because I do enjoy hearing people’s stories and trying to help, if I can.

But then there are the men, who start to often look nervous when they realize that I mean psychotherapist and not physical therapist.  They usually take a sip of their drink, and look as if they’ve been discovered only wearing boxers in front of a large crowd.  It’s quite interesting, I must say.  Frequently, what follows is a question or a joke that is played off in Rodney Dangerfied fashion: “So, you must have me figured out, then, right?” “Oh, hunh, I guess you’re analyzing me right now?”  Yes, they often want to know if they are being analyzed and what I have figured out about them in those few minutes.  Then they will look around the room like they really don’t care, but that usually follows with a question mark raised on their foreheads and a definite pause shot in my direction, waiting for the results of said analysis.  “What can you tell me about me?”  Interesting, indeed.

Of course, I make sure that if we’ve touched on a sensitive topic or if there is something personal hanging the balance, empathy and encouragement are offered to them (which we all need).  But most of the time, I state again that although I am a therapist, this does not mean that I walk around 100% of the time analyzing strangers, friends and random people at cocktail parties.  I tell them I am not at work and just another gal at this cocktail party hoping the band plays “Brown-Eyed Girl” so I can get my husband to dance.  I mean if I really was diagnosing strangers and newfound friends after only hearing a few minutes of them talk, that would be quite a lot of ticker-taping going off in my head 24 hours a day.  I mean, if I could tell you a great deal about who you are and what you’re likely afraid of within 10 minutes of hearing you talk about business, wouldn’t that make me out to have ESP or something?

Well, what they don’t know won’t hurt them.

Cheers.  Now let’s go dance.

karin1

Karin and twins West and Elyse...adorable!

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