I’d like to be free of the apostrophe that renders my name “June O&!#%*Hara.”
I’d like to be free of the need to eat after I’ve brushed and flossed for the night.
Free of my lust for White Castle and fettucine Alfredo.
Of sneezes that Just. Won’t. Come.
Please, relieve me of first name abusers. (“Hey, June! How’re you doing today, June? June, I was just thinking about. . .”)
That, and my compulsion to crow, “How cute is this skirt?! I got it at the Goodwill for $1.75!”
Spare me the clients who wouldn’t notice if I convulsed, clutched my throat and dropped dead at their feet.
The notion that my problems would disappear if only I looked like Gwyneth Paltrow.
The looming inevitability of my first colonoscopy.
The weight that’s claimed my mid-section.
I’d like to be free of clients who start to emote 44 minutes into our 45 minute session.
Free of my draw to products that will immediately be taken off the market.
Kitty litter duty.
My resentment toward people who understand algebra, chemistry, or anything to do with accounting.
I could do without nutritional labels on the backs of Nutella and Kraft macaroni and cheese.
My fierce aversion to porta-potties.
My limited imagination, which leads to disdain for stories involving time travel.
And people who end their sentences with, “Do you know what I mean?” forcing me to keep nodding when I’m not in the mood.
Happy Fourth of July!
Three minutes later. . .
UPDATE: I’m sticking with my porta-poddy aversion.