Transatlantic correspondent, and self-confessed irrascible older person, Iris Carryer returns with her ideal feelgood fix...
California is a Mecca for all forms of group therapy which I, of course, much less expensive than psychiatry. When my husband and I first arrived in America in 1964 we found it extremely comforting to allow our stiff upper lips to tremble in gatherings of people like us, all badly in need of soothing. It was calming to share our faults, foibles and phobias and realise that these were NOT unique.
Sometimes my spouse was more impressed by certain gurus than I was, and vice versa, especially over a gentleman I’ll call Bert. Bert was heavily involved in the then hot concept of VISUALISATION, where one imagined oneself perfect in every possible way, hale and hearty at all times, free as a bird from any kind of emotional hang-up … with a birdbrain to match as far as I could ascertain from Bert.
His smooth beige suit perfectly matched his hairless Chihuahuan face, as did his silk tie and matching shirt. "My name is Bert, and I’m an alcoholic!" he trilled. He did not dwell too long on his boozy past, being somewhat over eager to convince his dilapidated audience that they too, could reach his particular blending blandness. VISUALISATION! was Bert’s answer.
He instructed us to see ourselves in the cushioned comfort of a long canoe as it drifted slowly, slowly through a tree- lined lagoon. "Trail your limp hands through the water …. " droned Bert. "Think serene!" "Think CALM…"
The creaking and cracking of shifting limbs on church hall chairs showed that we were all trying our best to get with the imagery, but I was immediately filled with an almost overwhelming urge to wrap my trailing limp hand round a Mai Tai cocktail … and hold the umbrella.
I tried to imagine Bert as a sweaty Humphry Bogart guiding me safely through the dense foliage, but his high falsetto kept penetrating my retreating consciousness, destroying the illusion. Eventually a grinning crocodile swam up alongside me and I fed him pieces of Bert.
Full of guilt, I woke up in response to a jab in the ribs from a lady sitting next to me. "Isn’t he the very essence of BORING?" she enquired. "He’s my ex now, thank God! He’d sit around all day in his underwear, with hair and a beard down to his navel. I’d sit opposite him and imagine him all spruced up, like something out of a menswear window. So he’s all my fault. I should have been more careful what I prayed for! I guess I over visualised!"
There are very few stiff upper lips among the residents of this community and instead of Group Therapy we have "Fireside Chats" in which a smiling representative from one worthy society or another gives us an uplifting lecture of the ‘Count Your Blessings’ variety. Not nearly as much fun as sharing neuroses with a group of strangers. Tonight for instance, we are promised a talk about the ‘Position of Women in Japan’, and I just know it won’t be anything like as instructive as a bunch of us discussing the Karma Sutra.
My name is Iris and I’m still a sharing sinner!
