I admit it. I've got nothing to hide or to be ashamed of. I've been doing it a long time and at last I must confess. My husband only recently discovered the truth so it's time to come clean with everyone else once and for all.

I attend therapy sessions every Friday morning. Religiously. It all started when both of my children became of age to attend school-not just for a few hours, but the all day kind of school parents relish.

I know working mothers who would prefer to gab with a girlfriend over lunch, indulge in freshly sanded and buffed toes, expensive retail therapy, or-shudder the thought-om their way through Hatha yoga to repair their souls . But oh no, not me. I've found a cheaper, much more satisfying way to soothe my battered and bruised mid-life psyche. And it only requires 90 minutes-ok sometimes 2 ½ hours-of my attention. One must be fully committed and a patient patient as well. If you're seeking a quick fix to banishing the blues, read no more. If you're in it for the revelation-read on!

Allow me to divulge the sordid details of my clandestine rendezvous. It all begins just after Friday at daybreak when my dog performs his morning ritual. Not that one. Upon paper retrieval, I quickly scan the Spotlight section for a listing of available morning sessions. As I'm a regular client, I aim for my usual 9:30 a.m. or 10:15 a.m. time slot. I already begin to salivate like a Pavlovian subject over the enticing blockbuster releases. On occasion, a more enticing session is available at 11:50 a.m. I never choose anything later than noon. After all, there's a substantial price difference for afternoon showings and I'm all about my five buck frugal Fridays. Besides it's easier to convince myself to spring for the still exorbitantly priced small bag of popcorn and soda when you've been rewarded with a price break.

For two hours I can leave my own hang ups at the velvet roped off double doors. I anticipate the familiar feeling of calm as I sink into the comforts of a previously occupied couch, er, chair and unwind my mind.

I'm presented with characters that are consumed by Fendi fetishes and Jimmy Choo-ed lined closets, commitment issues and inane ponderings about the meaning of life. Then there are those who take their issues to far more exotic locales-searching for ancient remains; confronting their reptilian and insecta phobias while reuniting with the mother of the son they never knew existed. Others are much more animated and in search of elusive fighting powers. Oh the dramas.

When the credits roll and the curtains draw to a close, I'm refreshed all over again. My problems appear inconsequential to those I've been preoccupied with all morning.

Ah Freud Fridays-the best kind of therapy there is! See you at the next show.