I drove Mike to his Dr. appointment yesterday. It was our bi-monthly 'conversation.' The most time we spend together all month (x2) and have the same conversation about his health, his meds, our marriage (or what's left of it), sex (or lack thereof) and how I'm not always so pleasant either.
I don't claim to be Little Mary Sunshine, but can you blame me? We talk about the good old days, when he was just a drunk. And eventually the talk hits back to 5 years ago... when it all REALLY went to hell. Yeah, good times, good times.
Usually I just try very hard not to say anything particularly cruel. I smile and play nice. It's easier that way.
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I had a dream the other night that I lived in my dream house. It had all the amenities I wanted. It had the damn porch swing and one of those islands in the kitchen for the range top. It was pretty and clean and was not overrun with 'stuff'. I still had children.
I also had fantastic lovers and friends and I was happy. In my dream, I had somehow woken up in the middle of a life in progress so I was a bit shocked at how lovely it all was. Then I realized that I was a prostitute. No, there was no exchange of money, and none of my lovers were ultra-skeezy knuckle draggers, but the knowledge was there that I was a prostitute. Interesting. I am trying to wonder what that means? Does it means that I am selling myself short and not living up to my potential? Does it meant that all good things come with a price and if it looks too good to be true, it means you are having sex for money.
Or does it mean that perhaps I have overlooked a vocation that I would not only be good at, but I probably would have pretty flexible hours.
1 comment:
Or maybe you are thinking about the girl who is offering to sell her virginity to pay for grad school?
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