The Leisure Guide. Support Groups. Silly Obsessions. For Women Only.
“Welcome, ladies, to ‘Silly Obsessions.’ Thanks for responding to my ad. I assume most of you found me listed under support groups. I applaud you for having the courage to be here.”
“Let me take a count. Eleven of you plus me makes twelve. Perfect. There are twelve chairs. Choose a chair and have a seat. Notice that each chair is numbered, one through twelve. Once seated, that will be your assigned seat for every session. There will be twelve sessions. The cost of each session is twelve dollars. Cash up front.”
“One rule. What we share in here remains confidential. It’s our secret. We never use names, only numbers. I’m seated in chair one, so I’m number one. Number seven, you’re seated in chair seven. That’s your number. And so forth. We are numbers and nothing else. That way our identities are protected. Perfect.”
“Now, let’s get started. Just say your number, then your obsession. Any volunteers?” “I’m number seven. I’m obsessed.” Number one to number seven, “Obsessed with…?” “That’s all I can say for now.” “Thank you for sharing. You are courageous.”
“Anyone else? Number four, you seem like you want to say something. It’s okay to share.” Number four shakes her head no while staring down at the floor. “Thank you for sharing. You are courageous,” said number one. Number four thinking to herself, I’ll talk when I’m ready to talk. First, I’ve got to see what cards are placed on the table by the others, then I’ll know what to say about me.
“Go ahead, two.” “Dust bunnies are running wild in my house.” “So brave of you, number two. Thank you for sharing. You are courageous, said number one. Dust bunnies seem to be one of the most common obsessions with women. All having a need to keep a perfectly clean house. I suspect there are others here with the same obsession.”
“Number ten, you seem to be delighted with what you’re doing. Would you like to comment?” “See, I have ten of them. Five on each hand. I just love painting my nails. That’s my obsession.” “If you like painting your nails, then why are you here?” “I always read the personals. I was applying my new shade of color, missed a nail, and painted your ad red. That’s glossy apple red. Then I read, ‘Silly Obsessions. For Women Only.’ I thought, ‘that’s me.’ So here I am, along with my glossy apple reds. I know it’s a silly obsession, but it’s what I like to do. I have a sample for each of you.”
Number one thinking to herself, Why is she here? So, she polishes her nails. Nothing wrong with that. But if she wants to be here, and wants to share, she is welcome. That’s twelve more dollars in my treasure chest. She’s up to something. It’s rumored that a cosmetics peddler has been making the rounds to the women support groups. Could it be her? I do like the glossy apple red.
“Go ahead, number five.” “I’m obsessed with my refrigerator magnets. All one-hundred of them. All kinds. They know their place and I put them there. I spend five hours each day arranging them. Organized in sets of twenty five. Five across and five down. Five hours is way too long. If I could just cut the time in half. But, then, what would I do with the rest of my half-time obsessing? I’m sure I can think of something else to do for the other two and one half hours. A magnetic force just pulls me to the fridge.” “Thank you for sharing. You are courageous. High five to you, number five.”
“How about in the middle this time? Number six, I have a sixth sense about you. I sense you want to say it. I can’t say it for you. Go ahead. You can do it.” “I’m into…” “Say it, number six,” said number one. “I’m into…” “I know it’s the unthinkable, a bit of madness. It’s time to say it.” “I have a fetish.” Every woman is listening intently bracing to hear the confession of sin. “I’m into…nothing. Nothing at all. Okay, I really enjoy keeping people on the edge of their seats. I just get a thrill from it. Such a rush. See, I just did it.” All women sigh with relief.
“Let’s move to the top of the ladder. Number twelve, tell us about your obsession.” “Well, I’m into cracking eggs. A dozen each morning. Must be fresh and Grade A Large. It gives me such a release. I perform this ritual every morning at the crack of dawn. A great way to start my day, every day.” “What do you do with them, number twelve?” “Placed in the fridge until twelve noon. Two scrambled for lunch. Three added to my mixing bowls to bake three cakes. Four boiled for no reason. And three over lightly added to my man’s plate with a T-Bone steak. Ready for him at noon every day, just as he likes it. Always been told to always please my man and to always keep a clean house.” “Number twelve, you have told a tale of twelve. How can any woman today believe that one? No woman takes care of her man these days. She takes care of herself and does the housework, too. Thank you for sharing,” said number one.
“May I speak, please. I have someone to sell, I mean something to share.” “Number eight, to sell or share or both? Go ahead, this must be worth hearing,” laughingly said number one. “I’m obsessed with the yellow pages. I turn each and every page. If I miss one, then I start all over again.” “Oh my. How many pages and what’s your interest?” Number eight pulls out from under her chair a large book. She holds up the book, points to the cover and flips through it’s pages. “See, it’s him. He’s on the cover, the back, and the spine of the book. He is on every page. A photo for all pages.” “Who is he, number eight?” “He’s an attorney. We all know him. He is everywhere. Notice his smile and his wink. His line, ‘at your service.’ Now, what is that about? I’ve got his number. Always ready to help a woman in need.” “Thank you for sharing. You really are obsessed with him, I mean the yellow pages. Thank you for your courage.”
“What are you looking at, number nine?” “I see two, three, four of them rolling across the floor. Just like tumbling tumbleweed rolling across a dusty street of a deserted ghost town. The saloon doors are slamming back and forth, and the shutters are rattling in the howl of the wind. The piano is playing, but no one is there…” “Number nine, number nine, are you there? Please return.” “I’m back from the ‘Old West.’ That’s what dust bunnies do to me.” “Such an imagination. Thank you for sharing.”
“Whew, I hope someone has something lighter to share.” “I do, light as a feather. I have what they call a ‘feather fetish.’ I’m a bit superstitious. My feather has some magical power. See, this one, it’s a pheasant feather. Long with colors of brown and red. It can lighten a heavy load. Need the laundry basket lifted? One swipe of the feather can lift from floor to counter with ease. Arranging furniture? This one feather can move a trunk across a room with no effort at all. I have many others, but this feather has power, magical power.” “Wishful thinking, don’t you think, number eleven?” “No, it works. Worried about dust bunnies? It can lift a bed to search for them. One fan and it removes them. All of them.” “Thank you for sharing, number eleven. An obsession worth keeping for sure.”
“Okay, number three, then me. “You’re in a chuckle, number three. Share the laugh.” In the light lilt of a British tone of voice, “These preoccupations with dust bunnies, painting nails, organizing magnets, and a love affair with the yellow pages are utterly ridiculous. Rather silly, I think, really.” “Number three, you’ve made a good point. Silly and ridiculous, but important to those that are obsessed. Do you have a little, teensy-weensy, obsession to share?” “Yes, I do. It’s…dust bunnies…really.” “I just knew it, number three. We’re all obsessed with them. Thank you for sharing. You are really courageous. You had the nerve to say what most obsessions really are. Silly and ridiculous.”
“Now, me. My obsession is…with obsessions. I just love them. Nothing like being fixated on something. I’ve enjoyed every one you’ve shared. If you enjoy them, why not keep them? If not, maybe change to something else. I’m sure we, obsessives, can always come up with a new one. Session over. Remember next time-twelve, twelve, twelve. Twelve noon. Room Twelve. Twelve dollars. And that’s cash up front.”
Silly me. Silly you. Silly obsessions.
Copyright © 2022 Frank Clark
