I wake this morning in a dreamy fog of anger and resentment. Some would call it “The Wrong Side of the Bed”… yet, weirdly, I am on my usual side.
HH asks me if I want to hit the shower first, and I harrumph.
“What’s the matter, hun,” asks HH, “you OK?”
I grumble something unpleasant and thankfully incoherent, then lay there seething until the fog in my brain begins to clear. Slowly, it dawns on me: My dream was not real. It was a mere figment of my overworked imagination.
“Ugh – I had this dream,” I say.
“Ah,” he replies, not unkindly. “What was it about?”
I quickly try to make proper sense of my scrambled memories, which are fast fading in the light of day.”We went to the regional convention at Milton Keynes, and we got separated, and I lost you. Then you wouldn’t answer my calls, and the stadium was attached to a weird multi-level shopping mall, and I got completely lost. I was so annoyed I was missing the programme, but every time I tried to get directions back to the stadium, I would lose my way or get sent down some weird detour…”
HH smiles. “Must be your insanely inaccurate sense of direction,” he says.
Of course, I know he is joking, since HE is the one who can’t get from bathroom to kitchen without GPS. My grandfather was a professional hunter. I like to believe that, like my mother, I inherited his unerring directional sense. And the truth is, I rarely get lost. Yet, still I have this nagging fear of actually BEING lost, and an even worse fear of being left behind.
“I couldn’t find you! And I walked and walked… in heels, mind you! And then I ended up taking a bus back home, then getting a taxi from the bus stop. Total nightmare.”
“Mm hmm,” he says. “Sounds reasonable. It’s so like me to abandon you two hours from home…”
“Exactly. It was like a demented version of Planes, trains and Automobiles, but without the cheesy 80’s soundtrack.”
Of course, we have to verbally relive each treasured memory from that film: Steve Martin wiping his face with John Candy’s underpants, “YOU’RE GOING THE WRONG WAY!” Polka, Polka, Polka and the classic, “Two dollars and a Casio…
But we digress. “So then what happened?”
“Well, I got home like four hours later, and was so worried since you hadn’t shown up. I thought maybe you got in a wreck or something, but then I went into the guest room and there you were, sitting up watching TV, completely unbothered by the fact I searched everywhere in a panic, took a bus and a taxi home, and that I was so worried about you! I can’t believe you did that to me!”
HH chuckles. “Yeah, sounds like something I’d do. You know how often I use the guest room…”
I think he’s darkened the doorway of the guest room about twice since we moved in three years ago.
“Whatever. The fact is, I decided then and there that I hated you and everyone who looked like you. I woke up SO ANGRY at you for putting me through all that… then, I realized it was just a dream. And then I hated you less and less.”
He snorts. “Great. So now I’m like your second husband, then. The one you hate less.”
“Zackly,” I say. “But you didn’t hear the worst of it! The part where I told you I was booking an indefinite holiday to visit my mother in the States and I may or may not return.” I look at him apologetically. “Well, it was just a dream,” I say, as if my vile temper and plans to leave him were completely understandable.
HH is unperturbed. “Whatever,” he says. “We all know what REALLY would have happened if we lost each other at the convention: You would have got your knickers in a knot and taken a bus home, and I would still have been at the stadium in the morning, waiting for you.”
I look at the ceiling and realize he is right.
Loyalty is grossly underrated… plus, it’s nice to be loved.
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