Okay, so my wife is out of town for the week, at an education conference in Florida. They are definitely making sure these people get their money’s worth, as they’re starting out at 9am and going until 9pm. I’ve gotten to speak to her once, and exchanged text messages a couple of times. I miss her terribly. She comes home tomorrow night, when I’ll be performing, and doubtless by the time I get home, she’ll be trying to catch up on sleep. There is, at least, a better than even chance I’ll get to see her at some point Sunday.
So somehow, in all this missing my wife and wishing she were closer, my subconscious decides it needs to drag one of my old girlfriends into my dreams last night.
Now, I already know that my subconscious is a jerk. It likes to give me auditory cues when I’m asleep. For the past few years, it has been the doorbell ringing. I hate the sound of a doorbell. I fucking despise it. Were it not for the fact that my wife would inevitably disapprove of it, I would have disconnected our doorbell ages ago. But I’ve started getting wise to the mechanations of the id; I learned to ignore it and go back to sleep at 3:30 in the morning. And I’ve started to apply the same logic to occurrences during an afternoon nap. If they’re a real person, they’ll ring again.
The wily Id has figured this out and has lately trotted out a new one: the sound my smartphone makes when my wife sends me a text message or an e-mail. It’s the Jetson’s doorbell, so the curse of that particular household “convenience” continues.
Then, last night. My dreams were filled with people turning around too rapidly and accidentally hitting me with their elbows; for some reason this was known as doing a “Jared”, so I can only assume my Id is addicted to obscure inside jokes. The last person to do this to me was the aforementioned old girlfriend. and I gave her a hug anyway.
The elbow thing I can see… my left shoulder’s been killing me this week, an old injury that seems to need no trigger to reassert itself, it just movies in for a while when the fancy strikes it. The old girlfriend thing I can also see; I really, really miss my wife, and my subconscious is a jerk. It could have trotted out an image of her, or of any of the past girlfriends with whom still have cordial relationships; no, it had to drag out the one who ripped my heart out of my chest and proceeded to eat it while absently sprinkiing salt over the gaping, still-bleeding wound. Yeah, that one.
Along with the doorbell, I would really, really love to disconnect that damned subconscious.
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