What A Dream I Had...

I wouldn’t normally post about a dream I had, because I know that listening to other people’s dreams are boring, but mine aren’t, so... there you have it. Sucks to be you right now.

I dreamed last night that I was part of a huge project for which thousands of people had applied to take part. We all moved into a set-up town and were allowed to become whatever we were naturally inclined to be. It was a chance to start over, no expectations. This included personality.  We had been given extensive testing and were chosen for the project according to skills and basic inclinations that we already possessed, but weren’t bound to act on them. It was only to make sure that the community had enough people with a variety of skill sets so that we could make the town function without extensive re-training. I was part of the skill-set group called The Nurturers. We were the “Moms” of the group and we were housed in a horrible old rotting house. 

We were not allowed to discuss the outside world, although we were free to go any time if we didn’t like the project. We could send and receive occasional emails from our real homes - so it was definitely not prison cut off from the real world. It was like we were playing a huge, sociological game.

I decided that I would be butch and of indeterminate sexuality, I’d wear big biker jackets and have great difficulty connecting to other people: The brooding mystery woman who no one really wants to know,  pushing possible friendships away with my gruff and harsh words. 

***Note that I did not choose to become a society doyenne or the new society's definition of beautiful or Chief Needlepoint Officer. I chose to be an outsider with no social skills and low self esteem.*** 


In my dream, I chose this.


I had a crush on the leader of the “Hunter” group, a guy who looked a lot like Liev Schrieber. I didn’t stand a chance because the big club also had young pretty girls who weren’t socially awkward.

Everyone else seemed to be thriving and having fun. I was struggling because of the persona I had adopted. Duh. So eventually I thought I would start a garden at the side of our ramshackle house and make cookies for everyone. That was how I would contribute and win over the community. I was horribly lonely and sad, but knew I’d been given a "great opportunity" and wasn’t going to waste it.

I have never had a dream where I’m super hot and am slow dancing with Joe Perry from Aerosmith. Never.

So what do you think? Is my subconscious telling me that I am really a socially deviant, conflicted lesbian with no style, with delusions that cookies solve everything, destined to live a lonely, friendless life planting a garden that no one wants, enduring all simply because I’ve been told it’s a “great opportunity”?

This is the exact opposite of what I want to be. The EXACT opposite. I want to be a socially adept woman (sexual orientation is not an issue, as long as I’m thin), who has impeccable fashion sense, sensible eating habits who does not force herself to do crap because others have told her that she must.

What if Oprah is right and dreams can come true? Then I'm totally screwed because even in my dreams I can't become what I want to be. 

And what if nightmares come true? If my nightmares come true, than last night's dream will come true which turns in on itself like a swirling vortex of awfulness and irony. Or at least I think it's irony. I try not to use the words "irony" or "ironic" in case I'm mis-using them. Like Alanis did that time.

I'll never sleep again.

Arse Getting Bigger

Ok, yet again I have failed to come up with anything brilliant for today’s blog. Or anything stupid and boring. I’m not neglecting my duties, it’s just that yesterday instead of spending 3 hours writing and drawing a blog, I had a three hour nap. Yes.

The three hour nap is not unusual for me. I get up pretty early, sometimes because of dogs, and sometimes because I am so excited about having coffee that I can’t get back to sleep. So I have to make up for the lack of zees somewhere. And it’s usually sometime between 11am and 3pm.

I’m sure it’s pretty unhealthy.

Speaking of which, I’m thinking I need to adopt more healthy eating and exercise habits. Again. Seems all that weight I lost by running and not eating much is creeping back. Well, galloping back. I blame truck stop food, vacations, dogs barking and Vector. It is so disheartening to see those pounds returning, and so easily, after months of effort, miles and sacrifice. If you’re like 95% of dieters, you’ll know what I mean.

I don’t think I will ever get back to my lowest weight, and I’m not sure I should. I couldn’t sit in hardback chairs comfortably because my it hurt my spine that stuck out. It was creepy, but eff I looked great. I was a size 8 on my wedding day and looked great, if a bit bobbleheaded. I am no longer a size 8. Sigh. Not so much a bobblehead now as a weeble.

It was nice to be able to know that clothes were going to look great and fit. It was also very expensive. Because I have spent the VAST majority of my life unable to put pants in the dryer, the sudden ability to wear most things successfully was a bit of a crazy drug that ate away at my bank account like I used to eat cookies. If clothes were gold bricks, I’d be the safest bet on Wall Street right now. Sadly, most of those gold bricks no longer fit. I’m really hoping leggings stay in style a little longer.

I’ll be straight with you - it was really hard to lose that weight. I had to run 40 miles a week and eat no more than1800 calories a day - and when you’ve run 10 miles, that leaves you with about 700 calories to function with for the rest of the day. Not a routine easily maintained. It came off fairly quickly and steadily, to be sure, but I had to be vigilant. I’m not sure I can, or want to, go down that road again.

I am torn between two mindsets: One part of me is saying “You’re 45, you can relax a little, a few extra pounds is no big deal, you need a little extra in case you get sick which you will soon enough because you are 45 and things are only going to start breaking down, sister”, and; “You’re making excuses. Get off your fat duff and do something about your arse”. I like the nicey nice talking self better. Of course.

My husband belongs to the latter category. He is of the “pull up your socks and get ‘er done” school of thought on most things (other than making phone calls to repair companies). This is great for unpleasant situations and tasks, not so much for when I want to be coddled. So, I’m not going to get a lot of sympathy from him. My friends say “you look great, don’t worry” but who trusts their friends in these matters? 

So what’s a girl to do?

I’ll think about that while I eat Vector and bagels. Together. With cookies.