I had practiced, on the walk up here, a psychologically rich yet sympathetic speech, and until now had intrepid justification for my motives. Panda could use guidance from a seasoned, yet youthful and beautiful, mentor who can still relate to her lifestyle. Um, me. Duh. Seeing her galvanized by something as small as Mia sitting on my lap, I questioned her ability to comprehend my motives: the desire to be the mentor I wished I'd had at twenty. And then I questioned the motives themselves. Does my aim center on her general well-being or am I using her as a projective catalyst to mollify the often ensconseced mistakes in my past?  I felt Mia tense up in my lap, scared to be exposed in such a vulnerable position, as a black and white French bulldog happily trotted by, it's owner taking no notice of Mia, spread-eagle and in my lap. "My thoughts exactly," I told Mia and set her on the concrete, untangling her turquoise leather leash. I stood up straight, and prepared to deliver my speech. "It's just that," I started and then trailed off, noting the thing I never really liked about mentoring.  When you're a mentor, you're required to expose your mistakes and use them as learning tools.  Panda didn't even ask for my guidance. (Contain your surprise.) Rather, in a bout of self-righteousness I felt it my god-given duty to take her under my wing...but now, I couldn't decide for whom, if either, my efforts would benefit.

My mental rehearsal went something like, "Panda, I love you dearly and want you to know that you are an amazing girl. You're smart, super fun, and I can tell that people genuinely enjoy being around you. I also see how you act sometimes when you're not feeling confident or lacking attention...you have to relax a little and let it come to you." (Go ahead, laugh.) There was more, but I'm too embarrassed to delve into the specifics on my blog. When it came time to deliver my rehearsed speech, I realized that maybe the young woman who measures her self-worth through male attention and anxiously ruminates regardless of whether or not there is a legit reason to obsess may be neither ready nor qualified to mentor Panda -- or anyone for that matter. Bollocks!

How can I confidently mentor Panda if I myself have irresolute internal issues? And in regards to her general well-being, if I'm not comfortable revealing the mistakes I've made and using them as tools to mentor, then she will likely make those same mistakes I made. Furthermore, she will carry on void of a mentor to show her that the foundation of her confidence can't be found in Christian Louboutin thigh high boots (although those are fucking sexy), but actually comes from within. And in all honesty, it takes a long time to connect with. "I'm sorry Panda. I don't know how long it will take; I haven't gotten there yet." Yeah, that will sound really convincing, like a blind man claiming he can sort M&M colors. It will just take a really long time.

As the self-declared Manhattan Queen of Dissonance, I've dichotomize my life such that I have heaps of self-created dilemmas. (Hence the blog, people.) So is the real problem that I can't mentor Panda because I spend my days preoccupied with trivialites that hinder me from connecting with my true self? And does lack of self-connection make for an ill-suited mentor?

Wow. Um, I forgot to mention that you may want to sit down for this one. 

Looking back, I've obsessed over my "Dealbreaker List" to the point of exhaustion and have yet to come up with a solid conclusion. I've obsessed over my tardiness and the meaning behind it - i.e. need for attention, selfish disregard for others, pure stupidity, etc. I've obsessed to near death over my writing, insignificant in a world characterized by capitalism versus global responsibility. And I've woken myself up in the middle of the night obsessing over that same world filled with suffering: orphaned children, farm animal rights, wounded soldiers and homelessness.  In college, my friend John's dad jovially said to a table of my friends, "I would love, for one day, to have Emma's brain." I should really call Mr. Hornburg: "Remember my brain you wanted to borrow? Help yourself, sir. Knock your fucking socks off. I need a break."

Is there anyone who maybe wants to mentor me? 

No, seriously.

In the end, I gave Panda a diet version of the planned speech. And her reception was consequently lighter than it would've been had I used some legit personal material. The version delivered was a total cop out because I was too self-conscious to use relevant life examples. I was afraid A ) To hear myself say out loud some (there's not a lot!) things that I'm somewhat ashamed of, and B ) That after listening she wouldn't have benefited from hearing my lame college-partying examples anyway. I, at one point confident and sure, quickly faded to doubting my ability to constructively mentor. I have been thinking about my failure ever since. (Shocking, I know.) 

So maybe I get carried away obsessing over things like: email response lengths; my UPS man's sad face when he delivered my package on Friday; if letting Sal the Barber kiss me (on the cheek!), so that he continues bringing me coffee in the morning is considered non-fat latte prostitution; my fear that every single one of my ex-substance abuse clients are all back to using; sun damage versus pale skin; what color to paint my wardrobe; and of course, the opposite sex.  It's hard to sort out the substance from the nonsense because it's all a tangled pile of rumination. In a recent self-diagnosis, I decided that I use my excessive rumination to both channel my boundless energy and distract myself from seeking solace and self-connection. Does that mean that I'm unqualified to provide at least a minimal amount of mentorship and guidance to Panda? 

I am, afterall, a trained professional. How scary is that?