You think you're one of a special breed, Part two

Continued from here.

Last night I dreamed I was engaged to a guy I knew in high school. In the dream, his family lived on a big, successful farm. He left me behind at the house I grew up in and instructed me to take the car he left for me when I was ready to join him at the farm. I did as he said and as the car drew closer to the farm, I realized that I was no longer driving it. It was operating of its own volition. What I mean was, it was steering itself. I couldn't change its path or make it stop.

As the farm entrance gates closed behind me, I saw a breathtaking vista before me. I reached for my camera and tried to brake so I could get a photo of it. The car wouldn't stop and I missed the shot I wanted of an unobstructed view. When the car eventually stopped outside a tidy, low-slung ranch house where my fiance waited. I was struck by how I'd never found him attractive. The doors automatically unlocked and I emerged, furious at how my life was suddenly being controlled.

In dreams, I'm still capable of berating someone. Thank goodness.

Not every emotion is dulled. I'm in the middle of a sickening crush on MathMan.  The children are, of course, appalled.

In long-term relationships, this is cyclical. Sometimes I'm crazy, swoony in love and lust with him. Other times I'm playing out Merry Widow fantasies in my head. Sometimes he boos as I'm getting dressed because the Naked Show is over or he charms me by telling me that my panties are like candy wrappers. Other times he completely ignores me, so caught up in his own things and probably playing out Merry Widower fantasies of his own. He, however, has the good sense to never admit it.

He sends me texts in the middle of the day. I miss you.

I miss you, too. I want to be home in bed with you. It might be the most I write all day.

A friend took me to lunch. I won't call him old even though he's ten years older than he was when we met. So am I. I look different. He doesn't, but I tried not to obsess about that while we sat facing each other.

He said those words that give anyone who puts their writing out there both a thrill and a reason to cringe.

I read your blog.

He told me he thought it was really funny and, of course, I lapped that up like a big gray cat.

He wasn't finished. So what's happening with your novel?

I eyed him as I licked the compliment from my whiskers. I wanted to enjoy every drop.

"It's on hold. I don't think I'm a novelist." One by one I dealt out my excuses. Time, energy, depression, money worries. They fell flat on the table, scattered and meaningless. After a few moments' indulgence, he pulled that face that says I've heard enough.

The conversation meandered over smoked brisket until we wound back around to writing. He had an idea of what I could write about it. It's not a bad idea and I've already spent some time researching it. Man, that seems like two lifetimes ago. I've captured it in a notebook so I won't forget, but an idea isn't enough to prompt me to action anymore.

Continued