After a brief exercise that vaguely recalled what people generally
think of as hypnotism (i.e., what people see on TV, with dangling
watches and counts of three and such - for the most part, this is
fiction), Dr. Verea had me stand up, concentrate on a small eye
hanging from the ceiling, and imagine a great force blowing me
over. I fell back in his arms. It was an exercise in trust, which I
passed. I then sat down and the doctor went through a series of
relaxation and mind-opening exercises, ending with a proclamation
that when I went to sleep that evening, "You can remember. You will
remember."
I didn't.
What all of this leads me to believe is the following: Since I have
been traveling extensively for a slew of magazines for the last six
years, I have come to love countries, not women. This Valentine's
Day, I'll be in
New Zealand. Surely I will remember that.
Too Much Pressure by John Gonzalez
The truth is, I hate effort. Really, I hate anything that even
remotely resembles effort. Call me lazy if you like, but I just
don't want to be bothered with, you know, doing stuff.
Halloween parties, for example, are always a huge problem for me.
First, unless the party is held on my couch - and, for some reason,
it never is - then I'm usually not big on the idea because it
involves me getting up off my couch to go to a location that is
clearly not my couch. So there's that little problem. Then there's
the notion that all good Halloween-party guests wear
interesting/clever costumes. I hate that, too, and I generally
rebel against it.
But compared with Valentine's Day,
Halloween is the equivalent of a
lazy Sunday afternoon. Valentine's Day is akin to a busy Monday -
complete with meetings with your boss and demands by the company
brass that you produce a quality work product, and quickly …
or
else. Valentine's Day is a snarling beast of physical and
mental exertion. It pretends to be about love and good deeds, but
it's actually about stress and inadequacies.