Your observing ego is the rational, sane adult part of you that screams, “You can not leave the house dressed like that! Oh, sure, this is color blocking, but a green skirt, purple blouse, and red chiffon Isadora Duncan scarf still make you look like Pippi Longstocking dressed you for kindergarten.”
And yet you pick up your keys, get in your car, and go, but not to the store.
You only dress like a crayon box for your analyst.
Your observing ego is the part of you that tries to play it cool, who’s convinced she’s presenting her “feelings” for her analyst like Diana Krall’s Live in Paris seven-minute version of “I’ve Got You Under My Skin.” Leather jacket, languorous eyes, breathy vocals, and pared-down jazz piano backed by a lushly adagio mostly-strings score.
In reality? You’re draped in a vintage satin nightgown and sixty inches of creamy knotted pearls, flirting shamelessly with the saxophone player and oozing wanton desire all over the dance floor for three and a half wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am minutes like Carly Simon live on the Queen Mary.
It’s your impotent observing ego that stands frozen across the room, helpless to do anything but watch in abject horror while your id makes an ass of herself brazenly dallying with an obviously ancient and very married old man who she (your now thoroughly irrational id) somehow managed to regress into a semi-available sixty-something sexpot.
As for him, voyeuristic vampire of dreams, he loves every minute because even though it took him three months to woo her and win her—when he gets other women to fall at his feet in three sessions or less (or maybe he meant three minutes)—she’s swooning now so he’s still got what it takes, all seventy-nine and three-quarter years of him.
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