Some call it happy hour, I call it therapy

Happy hour with my girlfriends is a lot like therapy. On Friday, I was in A MOOD. Some may say a 'hot mess'. I was hurt, pissed, disappointed, sad, mad, but most of all hurt. Luckily, I have one of the best girlfriends anyone could ask for and she gave me a good session of 'therapy'.

After a beer and a nice big glass of wine, she did exactly what a good therapist would do, let me talk. But, unlike a therapist, she knows me well enough to know when to interrupt, give me advice, tell me I'm wrong, tell me I'm right. Like a therapist, she isn't supposed to judge, no matter what I tell her. Unlike a therapist, I know she doesn't judge, no matter what I tell her.

Happy hour is better than therapy. If I was at a therapists' office, the session would end once I walked out the door. But no, not with my girlfriends. After a cocktail or two (or three) we start planning. Ways to get back. Ways to feel better. Go to Bitter Balls. Move to London. Send inappropriate texts. Have another cocktail. (Go dancing in bird cages.) Yeah, my girls know me. A therapist doesn't know me.

So, rather than go to a therapy session with someone who will charge me for every word that comes out of my mouth, I'd rather go to happy hour, where the only charge I accumulate is my bar tab.

Some call it happy hour, I call it therapy.

Dedicated to the other 1/2 of my squared.