Page 46 of Space Oddities

And this place—the windowless room, the worn vinyl booth seats, the rotating dim lights—isn’t helping. It’s as if all my old demons are coming back, fueling my growing frustration.

“Sure, sure.” Rose nods, pursing her lips. “If you count watching Magic Mike as going to a strip club.” She laughs but stops when she sees my expression. “Trish.” She places a hand on my arm. “I’m sorry, I was just kidding. I—”

Shaking her off, I push myself up and onto the stage, turning once to look down at all the women. The heat inside of me finally erupts, shattering the carefully honed image I’ve perfected over the years. “Boring, huh?” With a smirk, I swivel, my hips loose and seductive as I face the center pole. In three long running strides I leap, both hands grabbing the pole high. I adjust my weight, swinging my legs out wide and up until the right one is above my head, hooking around the pole. My left leg rests down alongside it, toes pointed. I arch my back, letting go with one hand in a graceful arc until my back is parallel to the floor, all while I’m spinning. On the third rotation, I grab the pole with both hands once more before splitting my legs. Right side up, I spin twice more before coming to a stop, holding the pose.

Glancing at the small crowd, I see every single woman in the room staring, wide-eyed and open mouthed. Boring, indeed.

Releasing my grip, I dismount, landing on the tiptoes of my sneakers, not used to dancing in anything other than platform high heels.

“How in the flippingfuckdid you do that?” Rose slaps the stage with both palms, a cloud of glitter falling away from her agitated body.

“Yeah,” Myra pipes up. “What she said.”

Crud muffins. The reality of what I just did, what I just revealed, douses my earlier anger like a cold bucket of water. “I…”

“And when canwedo that?” Nina, the woman with dark hair who came in with Myra, asks Angela.

Clearing her throat, Angela looks from me to the other women. “The, uh, Gemini and the Matrix are expert level pole moves.” She looks at me again, like she can’t quite believe what I did.

Ican’t believe what I just did. I didn’t know I still could.

“We are, uh, quite a ways from that,” Angela adds, looking apologetically at the older women.

Myra crosses her arms and pouts. “Well, fiddlesticks.”

Rose, still staring at me, closes her gaping mouth and tilts her head, looking at me like she is reassessing everything she thinks she knows about me.

Fiddlesticks, indeed.

* * *

Ian

“Tell me more about your parents.”

I laugh, despite the seriousness of the setting.

Thankfully, my new therapist, Dr. Betty Brown, has a sense of humor and smiles with me. “I know the parent question is a cliché, but it’s a cliché for a reason.” A legal pad rests on her crossed legs, fountain pen in one manicured hand.

I’ve been in her office for nearly an hour. I’d introduced myself, told her I was here to deal with my claustrophobia, and then she was off and running, asking me questions left and right.

So far, therapy isn’t all that bad. The biggest dilemma I faced was when Dr. Brown walked me into her office and I had to decide where to sit. Set up like a family room rather than a doctor’s office, my choices were a recliner, love seat, or couch. I chose couch, but decided to sit, not lie on it. I could only take so many clichés for the day.

Dr. Brown glances at her notes. “You told me that you can’t pinpoint a single traumatic event that led you to be afraid of small spaces, such as being trapped or confined, which leads me to believe that your claustrophobia is a learned behavior.”

“Learned behavior?”

“Yes. Like you saw one of your parents struggling with confined spaces and took on those behaviors for yourself.”

“The senator?” I scoff. Nearing the end of the session, the doctor is aware of who my father is. And after a few of her pointed questions, I’m sure she has a good grip on our relationship as well. “I don’t think he’s ever struggled. In fact, he thinks my ‘little problem,’” I emphasize with air quotes, “is quite shameful and I should just get over it.”

Dr. Brown, her face usually crafted in a neutral expression, frowns. “Yes. Unfortunately, many people disregard anxiety disorders.” Her frown deepens. “Or any mental illness, for that matter.” She shakes off her countenance, going back to neutral. “And your mother?”

I lean back on her blue sofa, thinking. I’ll say one thing for therapy, it makes you think. About things you forgot, things you’ve been trying to forget. I’m not too fond of that part of it.

“I don’t know.” Flipping through my memories, I can’t recall much of my mother’s presence. “As loud and as opinionated as my father can be, my mother is just the opposite. She’s gotten quieter and quieter over the years as my father’s political career has become more and more demanding.”

“Interesting.”

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