There's the newspaper therapy. I count the number of obituaries and realize being over the hill is a lot better than being under it.

A walk by the ocean is a marvelously restorative therapy. Yes, I track sand into the house; but when life gives you sand, build a sand castle.

Calling a friend is therapeutic. Okay, sometimes I have to call two; but listening to their troubles puts mine in perspective.

Meditation is a popular therapy. For me meditation is a euphemism for a nap, but after a nap life looks better.

Golf is another popular therapy. I don't play golf. I watch golf on television. The slow, quiet pace of the game slows me down. For three hours someone else is keeping their eye on the ball.

My grandmother had a very therapeutic philosophy, "Don't borrow trouble" - don't worry about something that may not happen. If it happens, fix it. If it can't be fixed, it's not a problem - it's reality. Accept it.

An icy, cold martini is therapy in a glass; but it's more effective it someone else makes it for me. Feeling pampered is more important than the olive.

Not seeing red ink in my checkbook is a natural high. Of course, my mother-in-law winning an around-the-world cruise would work just as well. Seeing Father Time's picture on a milk carton would work too.

Unfortunately, massages don't work for me. I can't relax because I hear the minutes ticking away in my head. I can't relax soaking in a tub either. I can't stop thinking about having to clean the tub.

Counting my blessings, however, is usually effective, bedtime therapy. If it takes a long time to fall asleep, I have more time to be grateful; and being grateful is effective therapy.

However, I'm not sure my husband is grateful for my newest form of self-therapy. I told him I wasn't going to cook anymore. Although I immediately felt a sizable wait off my shoulders, John didn't say anything. I think he's trying to figure out if this is covered by the "for better or for worse" clause in our marriage vows.