Blind Spots



“And what is an intuitive detective anyway?” She said after having spent several minutes talking herself down a rabbit hole of doubt and embarrassment over being so transparent that if she stopped her endless yakking for a second and listened to herself she wouldn’t have needed to come to see me in the first place.

We sat in what is called my studio because it sounds so much nicer than garage, even if it is somewhat converted. The walls have been painted dark orange and decorated with mandalas and the obligatory chakra illustration. The concrete floor has been covered in colorful rugs of different sizes and patterns. Rather than a desk, I have put in a coffee table filled with scented votives and three comfortable armchairs big enough to sit in lotus position in or lean back for a quick afternoon nap. Over the course of her word stream, my prospective client had moved from the back to the edge of her seat, and now she seemed ready to lift up and leave.

It happens more often than not. People hire me to help them uncover their blind spots and find things they have hidden from themselves, and just the act of telling me their issue sets off a mental avalanche that renders my services unnecessary. Annoyance rather than relief is also common. That is why I don’t charge an exorbitant upfront fee but by the hour. Even if they do all the work themselves and I am nothing but a voyeuristic bystander, I have to give them their money’s worth.

This woman in particular. She was in her good right to be a skeptic. Most of my clients are oblivious to the smoke and mirrors they blow up their own ass, believing it is the most direct way to cloud their mind, but this one was different. She had done the work. From the way she carried herself, I would guess at least three years of therapy, about two feet of self-help books, and bi-weekly aura cleansings. Her short gray hair, eclectic style, toned body, single-needle spirit guide tattoos, it all screamed of a strict discipline fed by a relentless drive to figure herself out, crack the code, hack her system, and reprogram it to one day feel worthy. She knew full well what she was asking, and that was as rare as a unicorn at Costco.

“Look, Lady, ” I said. “I sense you are smart enough to know that anything you could dream of asking me, you already carry the answer to yourself. All I do is get you there faster.”

I have found that women like her, middle-aged, intelligent, over-achieving, and desperate not to conform, respond well to me, showing them my sleight of hand. It makes them feel special and part of the inner circle.

I could see her suspicion dissipate like lube on menopausal labia.