by Joseph Lupoli
On the waiting-room rack rests a familiar sea of psych med pamphlets with subliminal cover pictures of various pretty ladies frolicking along woodland trails or strolling golden sand dunes, or standing around laughing it up in delightful sun-drenched outdoor social settings with other pretty ladies and their handsome suiters with airbrushed teeth.
I reach over and grab a pamphlet featuring a buxom brunette pushing her kid on a swing.
It extoles, in a Robin Leach sort of way, the virtues of Lexapro as the answer for Major Clinical Depression. But Robin fails to include a vital piece of information about Lexapro that I already know: kiss your sex-life goodbye. Even a twenty-five-year-old Sophia Loren wouldn't be able to lap-dance your over-cooked elbow macaroni back to life.
So, when my shrink appears, interrupting my reverie to announce, "Mr. Lupoli ... please come in," I decide to tell her about last night's dream, the recurring one.
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