To put it mildly, I am a fan of the postscript. Otherwise known as the P.S. I have been know to write letters and emails with P.S.s longer than the body of the letter or email. I understand that the lengthy P.S. sort of defeats the purpose but it's one of my quirks. Deal with it.
Any way, I digress. I saw my best girl this weekend for our annual holiday baking gala and get together where we exchange Christmas gifts. A few days before our bake-a-thon, I sent her the link to my Day 51 entry titled "Manderly again." On Saturday, after our kitchen toiling was finished, she gave me a t-shirt that read ""Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again."
Throughout our 20 plus year friendship, we've never discussed Rebecca--the book or movie from whence the quote came. After opening my gift, I remarked that she really must have ordered the t-shirt fast, thinking that it was chosen in response to my blog entry. She ordered it months ago and had not gotten around to reading my Day 51 entry. (The horror, the horror, I know.)
A sign? Coincidence?
Monday, December 19, 2011
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Day 51: Manderley again
"Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.”*
I have a stuffy head and sore throat so last night, I took some stuffy-head-so-you-can-rest medicine. Okay, the Walgreen's version of the stuffy-head-so-you-rest medicine but in the "death-green" original formula.** It knocked me out and back into the arms of the ONE WHO GOT AWAY. Also known as the ONE WHO CHOSE SOMEONE ELSE.
The first part of the dream was him lamenting everything that he gave up by choosing to be the GOOD GUY WHO STAYED. Passion, intimacy, himself. His true self. He continued to wage this internal war in my dream. Until finally, he snuck in and then out of Germany and back into Detroit, which in my dream apparently borders Germany and Canada. He and his friend were chased by German border agents and after their successful escape to my kitchen, the friend disappeared and the ONE took me in his arms (and on the kitchen counter tops.)
It was during the sweet-spot of this dream that the dream took another twist. As dreams are wont to do. In between passionate, longing kisses, he told me that he often thought of me, especially during play group or when reading a parenting manual when a mom named Julie was mentioned. And my heart dropped. Into my knees. With disappointment.
Then, the slow beep that builds into a series of loud beeps that is my alarm clock. Pulling me from the magic of his arms, from figuring out why the context of which he thought of me made my heart drop, from hearing all the other ways that he thought of me, from having him choose me, to be with me. To be with me for more than one night, for more than a few stolen hours.
And then all day, I am haunted. The elevator door opens as I leave the parking garage at the Greektown Casino Hotel and the first word that I hear is Chicago. Where we met, from whence he hails. Then, this long, rambling discussion with myself on the way into work. Chicago is a popular, storied city that is often mentioned. As is California. It's not unusual that people, books, music, and movies reference Chicago or San Francisco or California. It does not mean anything. There are no signs. There are only hard, cold facts from which to draw a harder, colder conclusion.
And here I am. Still at work. 90 minutes past quitting time. Still haunted.
*From Rebecca, Daphne du Maurier
**Dennis O'Leary, No Cure for Cancer
I have a stuffy head and sore throat so last night, I took some stuffy-head-so-you-can-rest medicine. Okay, the Walgreen's version of the stuffy-head-so-you-rest medicine but in the "death-green" original formula.** It knocked me out and back into the arms of the ONE WHO GOT AWAY. Also known as the ONE WHO CHOSE SOMEONE ELSE.
The first part of the dream was him lamenting everything that he gave up by choosing to be the GOOD GUY WHO STAYED. Passion, intimacy, himself. His true self. He continued to wage this internal war in my dream. Until finally, he snuck in and then out of Germany and back into Detroit, which in my dream apparently borders Germany and Canada. He and his friend were chased by German border agents and after their successful escape to my kitchen, the friend disappeared and the ONE took me in his arms (and on the kitchen counter tops.)
It was during the sweet-spot of this dream that the dream took another twist. As dreams are wont to do. In between passionate, longing kisses, he told me that he often thought of me, especially during play group or when reading a parenting manual when a mom named Julie was mentioned. And my heart dropped. Into my knees. With disappointment.
Then, the slow beep that builds into a series of loud beeps that is my alarm clock. Pulling me from the magic of his arms, from figuring out why the context of which he thought of me made my heart drop, from hearing all the other ways that he thought of me, from having him choose me, to be with me. To be with me for more than one night, for more than a few stolen hours.
And then all day, I am haunted. The elevator door opens as I leave the parking garage at the Greektown Casino Hotel and the first word that I hear is Chicago. Where we met, from whence he hails. Then, this long, rambling discussion with myself on the way into work. Chicago is a popular, storied city that is often mentioned. As is California. It's not unusual that people, books, music, and movies reference Chicago or San Francisco or California. It does not mean anything. There are no signs. There are only hard, cold facts from which to draw a harder, colder conclusion.
And here I am. Still at work. 90 minutes past quitting time. Still haunted.
*From Rebecca, Daphne du Maurier
**Dennis O'Leary, No Cure for Cancer
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