What are friends for, if not free psychoanalysis?

“Are you sure you should be drinking that?” Karen asked me last night.  Nikki had been feeling creative and had made some whipped chocolate vodka martinis.

“Very funny,” I said.

Naturally, Nikki didn’t understand, so Karen explained her theory that my being so conflicted about Cilla’s wanting to become Catholic was that I was really upset about “the Baby” getting older and becoming independent and that I was probably going to get pregnant.

Nikki nodded.  “You’re such a nurturer, Charlie.  And since you were virtually an only child, which you hated, you’re unconsciously trying to give yourself that big family you always wanted as well as saying f—you to your parents.”

Neither of my friends has a degree in psychology, although they both had courses in college and they watch Dr. Phil and Dr. Drew.

Actually, that sounded reasonable.  But sad.  Very sad.  But that might have been the martinis.

I must have looked sad, because Karen put her arm around me.  “Do you have any happy memories of your childhood?”

But Nikki was more interested in my religious experiences.  Had I had any friends who had had First Communions?

“Not really.  What Catholics there were went to Catholic school.  I always thought they were exotic.  And I loved the uniforms.  And I’d even thought I wanted to be a nun, until I saw The Nun’s Story on TV and saw they had to scrub floors and hit themselves with little whips.”

Then I remembered.  It was a Saturday morning and my father was driving me to karate class.  I saw a little girl about my age, all dressed up like a bride.  She looked beautiful and so happy.  I remembered she had white shoes (without straps) with sparkly bows on them and socks with lace.

“Look at her, Daddy,” I said, all excited.  “Why is she dressed like that?”

My father snorted and said it was Catholic nonsense dressing kids up like damn Barbie dolls.  He didn’t say anything else, so I thought I shouldn’t either.

I told Nikki and Karen, and they said I had suppressed it because it was so painful.  Karen said that I had been deprived of the God experience as a child, which was symbolized by the happy little girl going to church in a pretty dress.

“And don’t forget the veil,” Nikki added.  “The veil makes the First Communion.”

We all nodded very learnedly.

I felt awful the next morning, but it was worth to have a psychological epiphany.

By the way, Saturday Night Live sent me my Too Much Information Award.  It’s a certificate with a 1950’s picture of a nurse with a finger to her lips saying “Ssssh.”

Thanks, guys!