Free Happily Ali After by Ali Wentworth Page B

sight of her enormous trunk and mildewed duffels made me even weaker.
    My daughter informed me that she was going to watch her friends in the swim competition. I decided I would rest for a few minutes after using my inhaler and taking my antibiotics and a steroid on an empty stomach.
    I climbed up to a top bunk. There were no sheets, blankets, or pillows, just a stained single mattress. A fewphotos of Demi Lovato were taped on the wall and the room smelled like old feet. I didn’t care; I was a walking corpse. I passed out. Or died, I’m not sure which.
    In my sweaty dream state I thrashed around envisioning myself packing my daughter’s luggage and soiled boots into the car. And in my dream the boots were made of lead and the car had four flat tires and I was three inches tall. There were also penguins, but I’ll save that for my shrink.
    Suddenly, I was nudged awake. “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t,” I screamed in delirium. I opened my eyes to my husband’s face. He was in a suit and tie; his skin was caked in orange TV makeup. I shot up, barely missing a concussion on the stucco ceiling.
    Knowing I would be a hot mess, he had found a way to hand over the reins at work and drove above the speed limit.
    My husband packed the car and bought me a McDonald’s Happy Meal. It did make me happy. And the three of us drove back to New York City. I would like to pretend “singing songs and snapping our fingers,” but the time was mostly spent convincing our daughter that she actually did like camp and that homesickness was just part of the sleepaway experience. And explaining what an anxiety disorder was.

CHAPTER 9
Couples Therapy
    M y husband and I have never been to couples therapy. But if we ever did, this is how I imagine it would go:
    Int. Therapist’s office. Upper West Side, NY. Afternoon.
     
    Husband, in a finely tailored suit and navy striped tie, and Ali, in tattered jeans and looking like a bedraggled Bennington college student, sit on a tweed love seat holding hands.
     
    Dr. Love sits across from the couple in a leather wingback chair, holding a notebook and pen.
    DR. LOVE:   So . . . what brings you to therapy today?
    ALI:   Um, everyone we know is in couples therapy and we aren’t.
    DR. LOVE:   So you came to couples therapy because everyone you know goes?
    ALI:   Yes, sir, that is correct.
    DR. LOVE:   Ali, you don’t have to call me sir, I’m a therapist, not a judge.
    ALI:   Yes, Doctor.
    Husband pulls out his iPhone 6.
    HUSBAND:   Sorry, breaking news . . .
    ALI:   Syria?
    HUSBAND:   No. Drew Barrymore’s in town.
    DR. LOVE:   Let’s start by each of you telling me the one thing in your marriage you want to work on.
    Husband is replying to e-mail.
    ALI:   I never understood why shrinks have Africanmasks. Was therapy born in Uganda? Or is it a literal shrinking heads metaphor? Did you buy them from the guy in front of the Whitney Museum?
    HUSBAND:   I think we could both appreciate each other more in our marriage?
    ALI:   That’s dumb.
    DR. LOVE:   That’s not appreciative, Ali. There is no such thing as dumb here. It is a safe haven.
    ALI:   Well, every couple says that. I would like to be appreciated more, sure, but if my husband followed me around telling me how wonderful I was and throwing peonies at my feet, I think it would get annoying. Appreciation is overrated. If I cook a crappy meal, I don’t want to hear, “This is the most delicious cod I’ve ever had.” I know it’s bullshit! I’m eating the same dry fish, so the compliment is meaningless—in fact it’s worse than that, it’s humiliating. But a week later if I make the same cod dish, but with more lemon and butter and it is delicious and he says so, the compliment means more because it’s true.
    HUSBAND:    (Looks at Dr. Love) I don’t, I’m not . . . this is where it gets tricky for me!
    DR. LOVE:   Ali, you seem angry . . .
    ALI:   I’m not angry. And if I am it’s because of