I'm Thinking Rehab

I tried talking my sister-in-law into booking our joint 40th birthdays next year at Promises in Malibu.  She seemed a little taken aback.

"You do know that Promises isn't a spa, right?  It's a drug treatment center."

Of course I knew that.  But Lindsay Lohan goes there!  They cater to celebrities!  There would probably be a goodie basket placed in our room upon check-in.

And most importantly, I was sort of hoping my insurance would cover it.  That was when my sister-in-law pointed out that I'm not really addicted to anything.

If she were to come over and check out the dozen or so empty boxes of Girl Scout cookies in my trash, I think she'd beg to differ.

I've always had these fantasies about sitting down with a therapist and divulging my deepest, darkest secrets.

My real therapist would be hot.  More Colin Firth, less Bob Newhart.

I would tell him about my overwhelming desire to be short.  I'd share my Catholic guilt over the time I tried to sneak my childhood dog some Eucharist to ensure her eternal salvation (my plans were thwarted by my big brother who told me I was going to hell).  I would talk incessantly about myself without interruption, judgement, or someone asking me to wipe their tush.
   
But my sister-in-law says we can't go to Promises or any place that requires medical forms or certifications. 

That'll teach me to invite her anywhere fun.  She can be such a kill-joy.