The Men of My Dreams Wear Green

ballet-flats.jpgBeing freshly in love is a long vacation where you never know what day of the week it is because each moment of bliss is indistinguishable from the next. You laugh louder, hold smiles longer, and effortlessly overlook all the flaws in your day, yourself, and (most miraculously) the object of your affection.

Falling abruptly out of love is riding a see-saw between hating him and hating yourself. Satisfaction can only be found while plotting revenge and visualizing the unraveling of his life. Your heart weaves what remnants of self-esteem you have left with the stronger fiber of vengeance in order to sew its gaping wounds. Eventually they heal, but not without numerous set backs from infection.

One morning, years later, in line at the post office, you find yourself surprised to be thinking of him. Was it the rerun of Seinfeld you watched last night that surfaced the buried memories? Maybe the man who passed you in Walgreens yesterday whose cologne stopped you in your tracks, made you close your eyes and take a deep breath? And then it hits you, abruptly, as you are about to pay for stamps.

“Anything liquid, perishable, or potentially hazardous in this package, ma’am?” asks the teller.

He showed up in your dream last night. You made predictions about Super Tuesday, joked about your siblings, and as you walked away you noticed he was wearing neon green ballet flats. After all, he can’t just show up without expecting a little bit of justice.

Today, I am grateful for the power of dreams.

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