It is said that dreams are a window to your soul. In that case, my windows may need some Windex. Or a majestic power washing by a man wearing a shirt that “accidentally” went through the dryer one too many times.
For this realist, the last several months have felt more like a fever dream. I spend the majority of my days in flannel dreaming of warmer states I would normally avoid like the DMV. It’s more than winter and it’s not my marriage. Although, don’t ask my husband; I just ran out of packing tape.
I speak fluent fantasy and even now, as I type this, I have retreated to a dark corner. I’m making love to an extremely old laptop atop an even older tablecloth atop a Sharpie covered table and my hands, the oldest of all…making the tip, tap, typing sounds that have almost whisked me away from 6:47 p.m., the time of day where dreams go to die and teeth march upstairs for brushing.
And, it’s not discontentment. Although, I must admit, I find gratitude impossible to live in on the 24/7. I am not a 7-Eleven of remarkable, insightful joy. I’m more of a Gratitude Afternoon Café type of gal. With waves of it rushing over me from 10 – 2:00 p.m., Monday through Friday; Pancakes served ‘til closing.
Something is happening. It could be a seven year parenting itch one year too late or, it could be the convergence of my mid-30s, 4 children and the full realization of a life full of responsibility. It could be weariness or, disbelief that the lines on the eyes in the pictures belong to me? Couldn’t be! Then WHO?
Mommy stole the cookie from the cookie jar.
But lately, lately…I dream of Las Vegas and Palm Springs and cheap hotels with boys I once loved in long-past days when I traveled with only high heels, a curling iron and my blender. My blender made the best hotel margaritas.
I should feel guilty, I think. I should feel no regret. I should feel free from the weight of living in luxurious emptiness. I should feel the weight of my responsible life. And, I do. But, I’d really love a hotel margarita.
No salt. Because, I’m almost 35 and I need to be mindful.
Lately, lately…I dream of that Southern California Youth Hostel with the sign shaped like a banana. Into the wee hours of a Sunday morning, our group of misfits played an endless game of checkers; the young and idealistic delegates of the impoverished-20somethings United Nations.
It wasn’t better. It wasn’t close, but, it was always a surprise.
And surprises now are adult acne and pants that accidentally went through the dryer one too many times and the oil delivery truck showing up just after you paid off a big credit card bill.
And the Hostel wasn’t better. Not even close.
But, I’d really love a hotel margarita.