Sorry I haven't updated in awhile… Hope you enjoy! DISCLAIMER: Yeah, 'cause I suddenly gained ownership of The Office since the last chapter. Not. I still don't own anything.

When I was little—like, way back in kindergarten—my teacher asked us a question way too complex for our little peanut-butter-thumbprinted brains.

"How many doors do you hope to open in your life?" Her eyes swept over us intently, fully anticipating an aura of amazement as we savored the opportunity to think deep, philosophical thoughts.

I glanced around my desk cluster. Sharon was shading in the flower on her sparkly plastic folder. Cassie perseveringly plucked at a stubborn hangnail. And Rob jammed a finger up his nose, diggin' for precious gold.

They obviously had no idea, or interest, in the proposition.

Whereas me? Me, I scrunched my nose and chewed my pencil until rubber flakes jammed my throat. I liked the sound of the words, how there was something you had to peel back to reveal the raw and liberating truth.

"Think about it," she said again, and this time, I swore her emerald eyes landed on me. "Think about all the doors. You can't just sit back and expect life to hand you the keys."

By the time Mom had agreed to a life full of eternal bliss with the equally blissful Jim, I thought I had it pretty much figured out. Though some of the bolts were rusty, and the handles jammed with wads of ABC gum.

Ooo, really getting in-depth here now, aren't we, I thought cynically to myself, tapping a pencil restlessly in my office on Thursday morning. Nice metaphor. You just have it all figured out, don't you?

My phone display flashed. I plucked the reciever off of its base and let the pencil fall to the ground.

"Dr. Jen Hawthorne."

"Good morning, Jen!" It was my overly-optimistic receptionist, Cindi. "Sorry, I just got in. You have two new messages!"

Only she would make that sound like a good thing. It was probably my cigarette-butthole of a boss, shoving more meetings down my throat.

"Go on."

"Just two men seeking an appointment. One is Michael Scott. And the other left his name as, uh, 'Nard-Dog.'"

Michael? For some reason, my ears perked at the name. I had been hoping he would call; he seemed so lonely.

Cindi recited both of their numbers, and I proceeded to give them both a call back.

I tried Michael first. It went straight to voicemail.

"Michael Scott. Regional Manager, Dunder Mifflin Paper Co., Scranton, Pennsylvania. Leave a message. Smell ya later!"

Witty.

I waited for the beep, then left my message. "Hey Michael, it's Jen. I'd be happy to set up an appointment. Don't hesitate to call back; my office hours are from eight to six. See you soon!"

And now… uh… Nard-Dog. He picked up on the third ring.

"Andrew Bernard. How's it hangin'?"

Oh my.

"Just fine, thank you. Andrew—"

"Andy is fine. Or Drew. Or, of course, Nard-Dog."

"Uh-huh, of course—Andy. Listen, this is Dr. Jen Hawthorne—"

"Oh… yeah." His tone softened. "Listen, Dr. Hawthorne, my wife made me call you. The Nard-Dog doesn't need a shrink."

Which, of course, meant that he did.

"Well, I'm certainly not going to force you to make an appointment, but it might be a good idea if you did anyway. You know, just to clear whatever may be on your mind."

His voice was cool now, the joking gone. "I don't think I'm up for that, Dr. Hawthorne. Goodbye."

Click.

Well, you can't win 'em all, I guess. But it still upset me, whenever I lost a potential patient. Not just for money's sake, but for the caller's.

As if on cue, my phone began to ring. Not exactly in one of my best moods ever, I snatched it up and mumbled:

"Dr. Jen Hawthorne."

"Hey, Jen." A deep voice—Jim's. Great. Just great. He had probably closed another billion-dollar sale while I sat on my butt, picking at a useless lock to another door.

"Jim. Hi."

"Just thought I'd check in. Your mom was telling me you were feeling a little low lately."

A little low? Who even phrased things like that?

"Nah, I'm fine. Thanks, though."

"Listen, Jen—your mom and I, we really do miss hanging out with you. We were thinking of having another picnic this weekend."

Oh god, no. I knew my mom's picnic agenda all to well; a fancy, freshly ironed tablecloth; a prime serving of filet mignon with the best silver I'd have stayed up the night before polishing. And if someone cracked a dish or knocked over their fruit spritzer, it might as well have been the end of the world.

Plus, there was nothing to talk about. Jim kept his past very private, and my mom had turned into such a perfectionist that it was nearly impossible to carry on a rational, positive conversation.

But still, I didn't want to disappoint Jim. There was just something in his voice, a special quality that made him a natural people-pleaser.

"Maybe. I'll think about it. I'm pretty swamped," I explained, flipping through my relatively empty planner. "Oops… I'm getting another call. G'bye."

"Bye, Jen. Hope you can make it. Love you."

Click. Only this time, I hung up first.

I thought back to kindergarten. I felt my teacher's gaze lock mine; savored the feeling of sitting in the driver's seat of life.

Then I decided it was all a load of bullcrap, and went to have a session with my next patient. Screw "different doors." I needed to focus on polishing the room I was stuck in right now.