“It’s my husband, Doctor. He’s driving me up the wall.”

“Oh?”

“It started out with his Bob Dylan fetish. That’s when he insisted on bringing his harmonica to bed every night.”

“And it progressed from there?”

“You bet. From Dylan he moved on to his Mick Fleetwood phase, and had me sew all those cowbells onto his pajamas.”

“Wasn’t that a little noisy?”

“Noisy? You bet it was noisy, Doctor. But that wasn’t half as bad as when he was stuck on Jimmy Buffett and insisted on calling me ‘parrothead’ in public. That was downright embarrassing.”

“I can imagine.”

“But that wasn’t nearly as bad as when he wrapped himself up in Rod Stewart’s persona. We’d go to a party, and after a couple of drinks, he’d start walking up to other women and whisper ‘Do you think I’m sexy’ in their ears. I was mortified.”

“I’m sure you were. Please continue.”

“Well, from Rod Stewart he moved on to Paul McCartney.”

“I remember that. Isn’t that when he insisted on calling you ‘Linda?'”

“That was ten years ago. The second time it was ‘Heather.’ I’m telling you, Doctor, I don’t know what it is with him. It’s almost as if he can’t be intimate with me unless he takes on the personality of a famous artist. One night he’s Julio Iglesias, the next night he’s Eric Clapton. Though, I have to admit, having Slowhand next to me did have its advantages.”

“I see. And now?”

“And now he’s still hung up on that Super Bowl half time show. He keeps calling me ‘Janet,’ and he insists on me calling him ‘Justin.'”

“That’s not unusual. I’ve had several patients over the past few weeks with the same problem.”

“You have?”

“But of course. Deep down inside, they’re all closet exhibitionists. They want to bare their bodies in front of millions of people. The Super Bowl incident merely gave voice to those desires. He’ll get over it.”

“Are you sure, Doctor?”

“I’m positive. Just give him some time. As the memory of the Super Bowl half time show recedes into the consciousness of America’s collective psyche, he’ll stop calling you Janet.”

“I hope so. Those ‘wardrobe malfunctions’ are starting to get expensive. Latex doesn’t grow on trees, you know.”

“I know. But it won’t be long before he forgets about Janet and Justin and moves on to another fetish, say David Bowie or Donny Osmond.”

“Just as long as he doesn’t take an interest in Britney Spears or Christina Aguilera. I’m too old to dress like them.”

“Just give him time. Time heals all wounds. And fetishes.”

“You think so, Doctor?”

“I know so. Now, let’s move on. How is your job these days? How are things in the Senate, Mrs. Clinton?”