Quick note before we get started: I’m back on track this week, which means Sunday posts contain previews for everyone with the full post unlocked for paid subscribers. The next free post will be Thursday. And just so you know, I’m totally not making this one paid because my husband will hate it. I mean, he might, but he also probably hates a lot of these, and that’s never really stopped me before. In his own words, “I knew what I was getting into when I married you.” Thank you for reading. Enjoy ;)
Thursday morning, I woke up from a dream where my final words to R. were, “I want a DIVORCE.” We were back living in Thailand, and we’d been sharing a hostel with a bunch of people including Blake Lively. R. wouldn’t stop hitting on her. He told her that he wanted her to bake cookies and place them all over her chest, so he could eat them off of her. That was the last straw. I screamed at him before sprinting away.
While I wandered, I ran into a lady with a scruffy little dog that I had met previously in a different dream I’d had about Thailand many months ago. She confirmed that men are, in fact, the worst. Just before I woke up, I spotted R. spying on me from behind a fake plant while I ate banana flower salad in the kitchen. I was adamant that we would not be getting back together.
Before we unpack all of that, I’d like you to imagine, if you will, a beautiful condominium with vaulted ceilings, restored wooden beams, floor-to-ceiling windows and exposed-brick statement walls. The loft has a spacious master bedroom with ensuite bath (complete with a standing shower AND freestanding bathtub) and a walk-in closet. This condo boasts gorgeous built-in bookshelves. The walls are meticulously decorated with personal photographs and attention-grabbing art. The chef’s kitchen is small but makes great use of the open floorplan, and the connected bar area provides a centralized spot to set appetizers for guests seated there or lounging on the couch nearby.
I’d really like to live in a place like this. I fantasize about it often, and whenever I do, I am blissfully alone. I have so many spaces where I can work, dine and entertain. The countertops are coffee-ring free. Not a single dog is barking, nor is a baby pulling my crystals down from the windowsills, so she can shove them into her mouth. The recycling bin is a pristine mix of washed cans, jars, bottles and qualifying plastic containers. I never have to share my beloved heating pad.
If you’re now wondering how I’m going to finesse these two seemingly unrelated topics into a single coherent post, buckle up. To understand the connection between these ideas, you have to first understand that I consider myself to be a bit of a dreamer. This is a double entendre of sorts. I usually mean that I’m a daydream believer of the persuasion that The Monkees reference in their song of the same name. But I also mean that I’m a nighttime dreamer of the persuasion Metallica alludes to in their hit “Enter Sandman.”
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