You are, all of you, delightful. You are. You humor me when I hit you up for compliments, and you clamor for vengeance against the Weird Soliciting Physical Therapist. (Dear baffled and/or disturbed p.t.’s out there: I don’t know what my audience has against all of you, either! I suspect they’ve only been swept along in my madness. Most physical therapists are lovely people who only wish to help those who are suffering. A small percentage are pure, liquid evil stuffed into a human-shaped skin sack. A tiny percentage.)
As for ruining the career and the life of the aforementioned therapist, I particularly enjoyed your pleas for mercy. Of course it was all for naught, as she crossed me and now I must destroy her. She will rue the day she ever licked that stamp.
Seriously, do you think I’m that nefarious? Don’t you think I have better things to do with my time, like ingest too much caffeine and wheel my kid around Park Slope trying to strike up conversations with strangers because god I’m so lonely?
Actually I’m not lonely, but the coffee, it makes me garrulous. It garrulates me. It causes me to make up words. And then Henry gets sick of my mindless chatter and my friends are all honest working folks, not layabout breeders (except for Sarah—hi, Sarah! Everyone look at Sarah’s cute daughter as she dances!) and I’m forced to harass sales clerks and fellow mothers and anyone who looks at me, because I’m So Hyper! And Isn’t It Hot Out! And Hi Your Kid is Cute, OH GOD TALK TO ME. (NB: the caps are meant to denote a kind of screaming inside the head. I employ caps for specific reasons, not just because I have ovaries. The ovaries are what lead me to dot my I’s with smiley faces and to adorn the ends of my y’s with flowers and shit.)
Wait. What? Oh, right. Coffee! Medical professionals have instructed me—more precisely, pleaded with me—to give up caffeine. Which I did, sort of, in that actually I didn’t at all. But I did limit myself to one cup of tea in the morning. I did this for a while. I was so good! And then the hot weather came, and I am weak and I love iced coffee more than any other liquid. At first I was just drinking decaf. Then I moved on to half decaf, half caf. But today I weakened even further and I purchased this incredible beverage, this slushy espresso drink that probably has more 23 tablespoons of sugar in it. And it doesn’t come in any form other than Highly Caffeinated. Even though I bought the thimble-sized version, I am now more juiced up than I have been in a long time. I have been more comfortable.
Returning to the original subject: the letter from my p.t. I emailed Randy Cohen, aka The Ethicist of New York Times fame, to ask him what he thought. His response: “It does seem out of line to use a client list for some other purpose. But more disturbing: who'd seek financial advice from a physical therapist? What if it contradicts the stock tips you get from your butcher?” And there you have it.