Sometimes, my world goes all soft-focus on me, and the cutting edge of reality becomes fuzzy, becomes blurred by rose-coloured backlighting.
Kind of like... kind of like... ok, you know when you have those really delicious dreams? The kind where you will beat yourself senseless around the head if only it would make you pass out and start dreaming that wicked, wicked dream again... Those? I love those dreams.
And sometimes, if I'm left without human contact for a while, if I'm left to myself for an evening at home with nothing to do but imagine imagine imagine... if I sit myself down with every intention of watching a marathon of romantic comedies but can't decide which to start with because I know that none will live up to the dream that's starting to form in the back corner of my mind...
It doesn't make sense, does it? I'm not making any sense, am I? I can't - I don't have the words to make you - make me, even - understand what it's like to forget where I am, forget who I am, forget what I'm about...
The closest I can come to explaining is... oh Lord... well, sometimes, back when I was in high school, I'd be walking home, and perhaps going over the day's events in my head, and recalling something that angered me. And I'd become so incensed all over again that I'd actually say something out loud, completely forgetting that I was out in public, and all alone. Then, the sound of my voice would startle me, and I'd look around and hope that no one was close enough to have heard me get angry at myself like a crazy person. And then, I'd just be grateful that I was where I was, and not actually having an argument, not actually having an angry moment with someone.
That's the closest I can come to explaining it, to comparing it to something real.
This weekend, all I've done is programmed myself on auto-pilot, so that I went out on Friday night, and enjoyed myself. I cleaned house yesterday, ran a few errands, entertained a friend for a couple of hours, and wandered aimlessly around the house, picking things up and putting them down. But the whole time, I was somewhere else, in a blurry, soft-focus space, with bare feet and a floaty dress and no hint of fat or winter or split ends or inboxes or deadlines or hairy legs or loneliness or guilt or irritation. And I was everything I strive to be, but without the effort, without the planning, without the carefully constructed mask. Though I couldn't see them, my soft-focus self had a background of parties to go to, had an energy source that radiated love and devotion... boyfriend? Husband? No idea. Blah. Too mundane, anyway. He's unnamable; I can't see him or hear him or know where he is - he's just something that exists and will one day materialize.
(Jaysus. In my soft-focus life, it looks like I'm dating God. I really hope this doesn't mean I'm supposed to be a nun. Because I don't think I could handle that. I mean, turtlenecks are kind of chokey for me - can you imagine if I had to wear those tight-around-the-head-and-neck habits?! Also, hi. Sex.)
Anyway, I'm off in my floaty, perfect-figured world. The kind that leaves me unsatisfied with the kind of joy that Tom Hands and Meg Ryan can give me, the kind that leaves me laying on my couch, staring wide-eyed at my ceiling for hours at a time, because whatever is in my head is better that whatever is in my life. And it becomes so very real. So satisfyingly real.
I've always done this. I've always done it when I'm most unhappy, most on edge. And it always sucks to come back to the real world and face pants that are too tight and a nose that's too Roman and a phalanx of cousins that are too thin, and too married and too successful at school, at work, at play, at bloody Pilates even.
And last night? It happened again. I drifted away from Doris Day and The Pyjama Game, and played with my brain, tweaking my imaginary dance through the clouds, so that sometimes it wasn't on clouds, but a crowded club, and sometimes it wasn't a crowded club, but a Broadway stage, and sometimes... sometimes... sometimes... all the time... that energy source was there, all the time, and he was proud...
Oh, God. This is so embarrassing. I wasn't going to get this far with this, but Holidalies has totally got me whipped, and it's only the seventh of December, and it's only now that I'm realizing that as chatty as I am, I never actually have anything to say... and sometimes, it's just easier to let my mind wander...
You know what my point is? You want to know? Ok, here it is. Usually, when I go off into dreamland, when I'm wandering around the house, I'm unhappy and I want to escape. And when I come back, I usually run straight to bed or straight to food, and definitely straight from facing anyone head on. It's an escape, poppets, because life, at that particular moment, sucks.
But last night? The whole weekend? It was just a bit of fantasy, just a bit of dreaming. Because finally... finally... finalmente, oh!... waking up to reality isn't so bad.
Christ. I'm so bloody sappy sometimes. Next thing you know, I'll be imagining myself into Maeve Binchy novels and YM prom fashion issues...
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