This post goes out to Mara, who’s several strange dreams I’ve much enjoyed reading. This particular dream I had this afternoon as I slept between church services.
It was a shotgun wedding for me and some guy. (I don’t have a name for him, but I’m willing to take suggestions. ;P) All I knew at the time was that his house had a plush carpeted spiral staircase with a very modern black banister, and he was suspiciously rich. He always wore really nice clothes and knew weird things like which cologne was worth more by its smell and when a jeweler was trying to rip him off.
Besides that, he was astoundingly good looking. Like… I can’t even describe it. Just imagine who you think is the most good looking man on earth and that’s him.
I really don’t know how he ended up marrying me of all people (he does sound too good to be true) but I believe it had something to do with parental pressure on my side.
I guess we were married for a while, because he started going through these phases of job switching. He’d come home and casually say, “I quit today” or “I’m going to be at home a lot more for a while because I’m changing careers” but we never moved, and all the times he wasn’t working, we didn’t suffer at all financially. Which was all very suspicious, considering I wasn’t working at all and everything we had came from whatever he did. Come to think of it, I’m not sure what I brought to the marriage. Maybe I cooked. I never saw myself cleaning that huge house. I did, however, see myself in a very soft wine colored robe drinking sparkling something-or-other. (It’s seriously bothering me that I can’t contrive of good reason for him to marry me.) When I asked if we’d be okay after about the fifth time he’d changed jobs or was laid off or whatever it was he allegedly was doing, he just said, “Of course! We’ll be fine. God provides.”
Not that I don’t believe that, but in my dream I started to wonder if he was a mob leader or a drug lord, seeing that I never knew what any of his jobs consisted of.
One night we were sitting on the couch watching The Bourne Identity (heehee) and I started giggling and out of pure silliness said, “I think you work for the CIA.” Then he give a long sigh and scooted me closer, planted a kiss on my head and said, “I love you, Beth.”* (BUT I DON’T KNOW WHY BECAUSE I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING!!! )
And it was quite for a while, except for the noise on the TV. But then I climbed up onto his lap (I’m short, it’s the only way I can be tall enough to look someone in the face while sitting) and asked, “Is it very dangerous?” He sighed again, and we cuddled, finished the movie, and that was that.
Except it wasn’t, because the next thing I knew I was running for my life with a little brown, tattered notebook in my hand that I guess I’d picked up from my husband’s home office and was now being chased for.
I hate being chased in dreams. No matter how fast you think you’re running, your dream keeps you at a snail’s pace and it’s infuriating! You’d rather just get caught and have it over with so the slow motion agony of it all will STOP, but you can’t stop running because that’s just stupid!
I got caught anyway. And just before I was manhandled by two burly men who looked more like gangsters than anything, I flung the book under some fixture against the wall. It really shouldn’t have worked, but apparently the fact that I didn’t have the book on me was enough for them to believe I didn’t have it recently in my possession.
And then I was tortured for the book.
I had no idea what was in the book. I wasn’t even sure if it was a life or death kind of thing, but I figured it was better to assume so, so I didn’t say anything.
I don’t remember how I was tortured. I don’t even remember that it hurt at all. The running was worse. But regardless, I never said where I “hid” the book!! I was so proud of dream me! Then… I guess I was let go to run around this dilapidated building looking for my nameless husband.
Sadly, I never saw him again. Maybe he’ll reoccur tonight and I’ll get to know that my courage under torture made it so he was able to save a million orphan children from sudden destruction. That happens sometimes; the reoccurring dream characters, not necessarily the part with the orphans.
*When I told my dad I dreamed he pressured me into marrying a guy who ended up working for the CIA, he laughed and said, “Then he definitely wouldn’t be rich.” But you know, my dream didn’t know any better.