Denise looked at me with wide eyes, hands over her mouth as I told her the sad, sad tale of what I like to call The Day I Lost My Damn Mind.
We were having dinner that Thursday evening and taking advantage of the $5 martini special at Mist, a trendy jazz lounge in downtown Washington D.C. After we placed our orders with the waiter, Denise began chatting away about her students; she was a Pre-law professor at one of the state colleges in Maryland; before she broke into a pretty innocent question. “So, I haven’t spoken to you in over a week, what’s been going on?” she asked.
I sighed. “Well I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in several weeks. I mean look at these Louis Vuittons under my eyes,” I answered and then pointed to my offending baggage.
Denise nodded slowly. “I’m gonna take a guess that by Louis Vuittons you mean the dark circles and slight puffiness under your eyes,” she said before muttering, “I don’t know why you didn’t just say that, crazy girl.”
I nodded my head vigorously in anger. “You can see the bags too? My secretary is a liar.”
“So you’re still having problems with sleep, eh? You know, therapist say if you have a problem on your mind it’ll haunt you in your dreams. So have you figured out what’s bothering you?”
I rolled my eyes and shook my head. “Oh yes,” I replied before telling her about how my nightmares finally led to the loss of my senses