Don't Tell Me

A phone call from my ex-husband this morning crystallized three facts for me:
1. Everyone has problems. (See photo)
2. They like to describe those problems in stunning detail.
3. I no longer want to hear about them.

At this late stage in my life--eligible for Medicare--I am starting to understand the reason for psychiatrists and psychologists to exist. Go tell them your problems. Yes, it'll cost you, but I can't do it anymore. Sorry, but the doctor is Out. I am still up for a good conversation--you pick the topic--or a rousing board game, or let's go out to eat or go hiking or biking or whatever. But those one-sided monologues concerning the slings and arrows of your outrageous fortunes are no longer invited. I'd much rather argue over politics.