Last night I dreamt about an old boyfriend. John Beard. He was the first boy who ever held my hand. He made fun of me once for picking my nose. It was fifth grade. I haven't seen him in over twenty years.
Yet, in my dream, he was a man. I was me. Not a younger or better looking version of me, but the same strung out, mini-van driving mother of two young boys who didn't shower this morning person that I am. And, he was okay with that. He was still interested in holding my hand. He had every intention of being with me, despite the fact that I had food stuck in my hair.
In my dream, I kept wanting to steal away for a few minutes to shave my legs. I felt desperate to ensure that, even though I had stretch marks and wrinkles and mom underwear, my legs be soft and hair-free.
That is, of course, when the dream morphed into a strange mountain climbing/mall shopping trip scenario that definitely did not involve my fifth grade, now manly, boyfriend.
In the waking hours since that dream, my mind continues to find his face. To relive the moment when I asked him how he kept his car so clean and the realization that this neat-nick, handsome man was actually in love with me despite how far I have fallen from youthful grace.
What do you make of that, psychiatrist sam? Does it mean that I need more spice in my marriage? Or, perhaps just better hygiene? Does it mean that I long for a distant past? As long ago as my upper elementary years?
I probably won't share this with my husband. I mean, what would I say? "Hey honey, you won't believe this crazy dream I had last night." Doesn't seem like the kind of thing I he would even be interested in hearing. Oh, right. Maybe that's the problem.
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