The Lovely Chocolate Mob - By Richard J. Bennett Page 0,13

hate your family, your parents, that sort of thing.”

I heard Miss Planter’s pen click, and then there was more writing on the clipboard. “You have dated much in the past, Mr. Owen?”

“Was that a question?” I asked, looking for clarification.

“Yes.”

“No,” I said. “I’ve dated some, but not what I’d call ‘much.’ Every now and then when I felt as though I was out of touch, I’d get a date to meet some sort of mental quota, but I’m not what you would call a wolf on the prowl.”

“Quota? Explain this ‘quota’ system to me, if you would please,” Miss Planter asked, professionally.

“The best I can explain it is, starting way back in high school, if I didn’t have a date at least once every few months, I’d think less of myself and become anxious. Why? I don’t know. I think it’s because I had unrealistic expectations to be like the men on television, who seemed to have no trouble attracting and keeping young and beautiful women on their elbow, and so I probably had youthful views of what life was supposed to be. I’d get a date every now and then, just to meet this mental ‘quota,’ but it was really so I’d feel better about myself.”

“Were you happy with this quota system, Mr. Owen?” Miss Planter was still not smiling at this point; she wanted to hear more.

“No, not really. I wasn’t what you’d call successful in the area of relationships, in a boy-girl sort of way…”

“Success is many things to many people,” said Miss Planter. “Did you consider yourself to be a failure in this area, then, Mr. Owen?”

“No, I wouldn’t…” I stumbled. “… I don’t think I’d call myself a failure here. I just wasn’t a fellow who always had a girl around, or handy. And dating really proved to be more trouble than it was worth, in my opinion.”

“And why was that, Mr. Owen?”

“Because, back then, anyway, the guy was the one who was supposed to do all the asking, all the arranging, all the permission-getting, and on top of everything else, the person who paid for it all. And I’d wind up paying for dates, and many times I didn’t even like the girl I was with. I was trying to do the proper and socially acceptable thing, as I knew it, something I didn’t enjoy. So I guess this translated into marriage, somehow. I figured that since I was the person who was responsible for everything, the house, car, relationship, payments, bills, I figured it was just too much to bother with.”

Miss Planter looked as though she understood what I was saying. She seemed to be enjoying what she was writing on her clipboard, anyhow. I wondered if what she was writing had the word ‘loser’ in it. She also looked as though she was suppressing a grin.

I also thought and felt as though I’d sweated off five pounds.

Evaluation

My sessions had gone well; I was pleased with the visits. Miss Planter had so far been a fair woman to me. She hadn’t really made any judgments, no condemnations, anyhow, which was a good thing. She had been thorough, and had made me re-evaluate my life from another person’s viewpoint, from a person whom I was learning to trust, whose opinion I respected. I had shared my opinions… and feelings… with a mental health counselor, who had been patient with me in return.

She had evaluated me, but I had been evaluating her as well. She was bright, intelligent, thoughtful, and knowledgeable. I had friends, yes, but not the kind of friends who could give me deep insights into myself. Hearing what she had to say was something new, something helpful. Speaking of help, that’s one thing she recommended. Like Lucy to Charlie Brown, Miss Planter said that I needed some kind of involvement. She remarked that one of the reasons I hadn’t been happy was because I hadn’t felt useful, or significant. Since I had missed out on being a husband and father, I wasn’t able to see my spouse or children be helped, and this made me feel like a failure, in my own eyes, even though I wasn’t. I was glad to hear this from Miss Planter, who seemed to hear what I had said, even though I was paying her to listen.

My assignment was to help other people, somehow, in order to deal with the feelings I had been experiencing. Now I was seeing that men have feelings that they have to