I am convinced they are pumping metered doses of vapoized general anesthetics into the room air at the cognitive behavioral therapist’s office. What else could it be? I take my seat in the waiting room and within seconds I’m like a Serengeti rhino rendered motionless from the blowdart in my neck. Mouth agape, drool flowing copiously, I am the poster child for slovenly, old man sleeping on subway you hustle past to avoid my puffs of air, snorts, throat clearing each time my head bobs and I wake for a split second to feign I am really not sleeping, just resting my eyes. I am confident these are the moments of which my children are least proud. At least if I die tomorrow, I will take comfort knowing that I fulfilled my parental duty to embarrass them during their upbringing.
On second thought, maybe I’m just getting old. Damn it!