I got my ass kicked last night.
I was dreaming, but still, that’s just not right. With each minute of wakefulness the dream slips further and further away. If I don’t think about it I can almost glance at details out of the corner of my eye but when I try to grasp them they slide right through my fingers. I remember waking up at some point and deciding that Mama G was going to be the hero that saved me and inserting her into the dream. I can’t remember if it worked.
Now I’m wondering why I didn’t decide to make myself the hero of my dream. Susan posted about fantasies this morning and it occurred to me that my main one is being taken care of. I don’t think I could stand it for any more than a couple days before I ran screaming, but I’d really love it if I didn’t have to make any decisions or choices for a while. If someone took me on a fully planned out vacation; if someone threw me a surprise party; if someone said, “Don’t worry G, I’ve got this”.
Like President Shrub I am the decider in my life. I pick the movies I see with BPM, I design the trip with Papa and now for Mama. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy planning things for them, trying to pick out things they’d like but wouldn’t see or do on their own. I like taking care of people. V was the only person in my life who would call and say things like, “We’re going to this place at this time to do this thing – you in?” Then she left me for the wilds of Raleigh, NC. Not that I’m bitter or anything.
So maybe last night when the sharp silver discs were flying at my head and my body was bruised and screaming I decided someone else needed to do the saving this time. Maybe it was the last night of Birthday Month and I decided to take it off. Maybe I shouldn’t read stories about death before bed. Maybe I’m reading too much in to this entire thing.
You figure it out. I’m done.