Back in grad school for psychology, my peers and I were drawn to self-improvement and self-actualization techniques. Transactional analysis, neuro-linguistic programming, psychodrama… Even the names of these trendy methods sounded like a panacea for overcoming fears on the way to happiness and success. Students and post-grads flocked to these seminars, anticipating magical personal transformations. Attendees left enlightened, with new hopes and perspectives in search of the elusive better self.

The most popular classes were run by the Three Ss—Sanders, Sullivan, and Stevenson—the psychology department’s stars. Everyone clamored for their workshops. Getting in required almost superhuman persistence and signing up months in advance. I must admit, for my personal growth, most of those workshops were as helpful as mustard plasters for a corpse. I stayed stubbornly myself—phobias, complexes, and all. Not that it was the professors’ fault, they were knowledgeable and fascinating folks.

Ethan Sanders, for instance, had a favorite joke, likely borrowed from Freud or another classic.

“I know,” he used to tell his students, “that half of you have come to this faculty hoping to solve your personal problems.”

“And the other half?” someone from the audience would ask.

“The other half… have already realized that even a degree in psychology won’t help with that.”

I liked Helen Sullivan’s looks. Petite and slender, with short hair styled into small beige curls, she bore a distant resemblance to actress Meg Ryan. I wanted to talk to her. Students swarmed her during breaks. One day, I waited until we were alone and said,

“Helen, I’m exploring the interplay of internal and external conflict. Could you suggest some key books or research to read?”

She looked at me as if she’d spotted a Rorschach inkblot on her skirt and replied,

“Read mine.”

Professor Julianne Stevenson reminded me of a venerable elementary school teacher. She led workshops on body-oriented therapy. I can’t remember what exactly its point was. Honestly, I didn’t fully get it even back then. However, during one of Julianne’s sessions, an incident occurred that has lingered in my memory, that somehow helped me, changed something within. How it helped and what changed, I won’t say. But here’s what happened.

We, about thirty strangers, were sitting in a hot tutorial room. Winter had set in, and the university’s heating was at full blast. Occasionally, we had to get up, push our chairs under the desks, and do some exercises. Then, following a brief discussion, we would take notes.

“The last task,” Julianne announced. “Those in the first and third rows, turn to the person behind you and take their hands.”

A girl turns to me, smiling. Her gaze radiates confidence—many therapy classes under her belt. Pretty, even very pretty. She extends her hands, and I’m horrified to discover my palms are disgustingly sweaty. It’s hot in the room, there’s no time to wipe them discreetly. The anxiety made them even sweatier. Disaster. We joined hands. Her touch was cool and dry (how do they manage?), quite unlike mine… a disgrace. A sweaty pig. And as bad luck would have it, she is a beauty! I wish she was a plainer one.

Meanwhile, Julianne’s soothing voice drifts through the room.

“Greet each other with your hands… focus on the sensation… Share a fear, share your vulnerability… Look into each other’s eyes… Now close… take three deep breaths… Trust…”

But I am fixed on a single thought: my poor partner’s longing to wash her hands. Finally, the ordeal ended. The girl turned away. Disgust seemed to flicker across her face. I immediately reached for my handkerchief, though… what’s the point now?

The instructor continued,

“And now, as usual, your thoughts, feelings, comments.”

Several hands went up.

“Let’s start with you. No need to stand, just speak from your seat.”

A slouched, nerdy-looking young man in the second row stood up, then sat back down and said,

“I might be a bit off topic… The thing is, it’s hot in here, and my palms got terribly sweaty. When I took the hands of the young lady in front of me, I felt really awkward. Plus, I kind of fancied her… So, that’s all I could think about during the exercise. Sorry.”

A nervous chuckle rustled through the audience. And I suddenly knew that something important had happened to me. As if some wheels had clicked inside, an invisible gear had turned… And a piece of the big puzzle we’d been putting together all our lives fell into place.

While we were stuffing ourselves into our jackets and coats, “my” girl glanced at me a few times. I should have asked for her number.

– Max Nevoloshin