Once in eighth grade I had a dream about a guy I knew. It was a good dream. One of those dreams that feels so real that when you wake up you’re sure it must have really happened.
I hate dreams like that.
When Art and I first got married, I had a dream that he suddenly turned into a complete jerk who just kept telling me he didn’t really love me, it wasn’t a big deal, he just didn’t want to be married to me anymore. The dream Art was just so cold. I woke up crying and woke him up with my sniffles and he cuddled me and assured me of his love but it was so real I was shaky all day from it.
Sometimes dreams just mess with you, and my eighth grade sleeping romance did the same. In my dream he had held my hand and said I was beautiful, and when morning came I was sure I was in love.
I spent another year pining away after him, and I’m fairly sure that he had no idea I was even really there.
Of course, in a fairy tale, he would have had the same dream, and the next morning at school, time would have stopped and music would have swelled (swollen? snort) and a beam of light would have shot straight from the heavenlies as we ran into each other’s arms, never again to be parted.
Life is not a fairy tale. And I’m glad.
Because looking back, almost twenty years after eighth grade, I’m glad that that dream didn’t come true.
I’d rather be here in my messy, noisy duplex with my messy, noisy kids and my wonderful husband (met in college, not in junior high) than in any fairy tale castle.
Although, I wouldn’t mind having a fairy tale figure.
I’m just saying.