A blog that was supposed be made up of bits about cab rides and blurbs about beauty products but, instead, is about other things.


XO, Me

We pull up to the corner of Vanderbilt and Dean, I pay, and as I wait for the receipt:

“Umm, I try never to ask these things to the customer, but I just, I, uh, I just really want to.

You’re that psychiatrist, right?

I mean, I see you walking on the street and I think it is you, and then you raise your arm to stop me, and I think, ‘Wow, her, in my cab!’ But then I didn’t say anything, and now I think ‘I know I’m not supposed to say it when I pick up such people,’ but then I heard you speak and now I am sure that it is you, and so I just have to ask…”

I feel bad.

I stop him.

“I’m not a psychiatrist,” I laugh. “I could probably use a psychiatrist. But I’m not one.”

(“And how does that make you feel?” I can picture my roommate chiding/mocking me when I relay this whole bit.)

The fact that I’m going to write about this when I get home makes me sure I should see a psychiatrist, I think. To myself.

He asks for my autograph. He says he’s sure it’s me. He looks quite sad when I try, again, to protest.

I'm not sure whether he wants me to sign as Dr. Joyce Brothers. Or Dr. Phil. Or, I can’t think of any more, and I am so far from figuring out exactly who he thinks I might be, that I scribble “Thank you for the ride. XO, Me” on a scrap of Sunday’s New York Times Arts and Leisure cover. And then I dash.

Although I do think, for a moment, about asking him for his autograph too.
jensnow(AT)gmail(DOT)com. All content Copyright 2008. You can visit me at Things I Don't Understand And Definitely Am Not Going To Talk About (thingsidontunderstandand.tumblr.com) and at www.jensnow.com.