The day I decided to join the TherapyCorp™ waiting list, I'd spent four hours trapped in my apartment's vestibule, unable to decide if I should hold the door for a neighbor who was still technically visible but realistically too far away. We'd performed an awkward distance-closing dance until the sun set and we both retreated to our respective homes, defeated. This was the moment I realized I needed professional help.

My sister Lisa called me at three in the morning, which meant she was either dying or had just watched the Academy Awards. "Did you see what that actress was wearing?" she asked, her voice trembling with what I can only describe as recreational outrage. "Two hundred thousand dollars for a dress she'll wear once, while my kid's math teacher is buying pencils with her own money."

Mother used to tell me that before the Big Building Boom, people actually walked on dirt. Real dirt! Not the composite-engineered-soil-substitute we keep in those sad little window boxes, but authentic, straight-from-the-ground dirt that supposedly went on for miles.