I’ve got dreams. They don’t include the corner office or being famous or winning the lottery.
But they are dreams still.
I dream of sleeping all the way through the night until at least 8:00 AM. I dream of waking up rested and pain-free, including that horrible ache in my sacrum that is my daily companion.
I want to leave lipstick or gum lying around without worrying that both will end up on the carpet, the walls, or someone’s hair.
I dream of tossing my purse on the floor without a care in the world that someone will find my pen and stab me with it or ruin my new bedspread.
God. To be able to pick out a nail polish color without hating it once it’s painted on my nails and totally envying everyone else’s nail colors, especially whoever sat next to me and picked the most on-trend-but-still-classic color.
And to order in a restaurant without regretting my choice for the next half week? What does that even feel like? I perseverate during those agonizing pre-order moments and then something insane comes out of my mouth when the waiter comes: “How about the tofu pot pie with chesnuts?” That. I want those moments to not happen.
Who am I even kidding? I barely ever go to restaurants, but someday it won’t be a newsworthy event when I do, and I will order something magical and delicious and I won’t spend a red hot second staring at your food wondering why I ordered the most esoteric and unfilling dish on the entire menu.
Someday I’ll learn how to gather, wash, and fold clothes all in the same week. And maybe even put them away within the same calendar month. I’ve heard it happens. Never seen it myself.
And on that same week, maybe I will figure out how to cram all of the following into my son’s 2-hour nap time: write a blog post and at least 1000 words in novel, get eye brows waxed, call old friend I miss and adore, schedule dentist appointment, read my email, prepare my mise en place for dinner, and get in a run. Or maybe I’ll stop trying to cram so much into such tiny spaces.
I dream of opening the mail– not hiding it on the stairs for Jeff to handle.
I dream of always knowing what to wear and how to wear it.
And– of always (or even sometimes) knowing where the hell I put my sunglasses, that coupon I was going to use, or the recipe I tore out of Cooking Light at the doctor’s office.
I’ve got big dreams made of tiny moments and imperceptible gestures and domestic tasks and commonplace situations. They seem as far away as the Big Stuff I used to dream of, these dreams of mine, deferred for now. But someday.