Last night George Clooney came to me in my dreams. Well, he didn’t come to me. He was just there. Sleeping. On the couch. In his underwear.
WHAT? you must be thinking. You dream about George Clooney but he’s asleep on the couch wearing clothes? Yes, that’s right. He’s sound asleep (doesn’t even know I’m there), wearing a t-shirt and boxers. And there’s no room on the sofa for me.
This is pretty much the way my dreams go, and last night’s dream brings to mind one I had 10 years ago starring Richard Gere. I had recently undergone a hysterectomy, so I was having the dreaded night sweats. In my dream Richard Gere appeared near the foot of my bed wearing a tuxedo, an intense stare, and a sexy half smile. He reached toward me with his hand and said, “I want to make love to you.”
I would have fainted if I hadn’t been asleep.
So what did I say? “No, thank you.” Really. Then I elaborated. “I mean, not tonight, if that’s okay with you. I mean, can you come back tomorrow, or maybe even later?” All the while (in my dream), the thought is running through my mind that if Richard Gere gets into bed with me, he’ll notice how sweaty I am, and that would be so embarrassing. Even in my dreams I worry about what other people might think. My mother would be so proud.
When I told my sister about the dream the next day—because let’s face it . . . the excitement of Richard Gere standing at the foot of your bed in a tux proclaiming he wants to make love to you is a difficult thing to keep to oneself—my sister said, “What were you thinking? You could have gotten in the Jacuzzi and he’d never have known you were sweaty.” I reminded her that I don’t have a Jacuzzi, to which she instantly answered, “It’s your dream. You can have anything you want.”
Evidently not. Evidently I won’t let myself have the good things of my dreams, or I’d have had Richard Gere and George Clooney … and a few other things I can think of.
As I end this blog it occurs to me that the very last thing I did before I went to bed last night was walk into the kitchen, turn on the light, and stare at my family room where my “new” sofa—the sofa in my dream—sits. The sofa belonged to my sister and it was new and in perfect condition when given to me, but I never cared for the pattern. So this week I pulled out the cushion and pillow covers that I had saved from my previous sofa, the sofa I’d had to throw out because a pygmy rattlesnake died in the bottom of it (thank you, mischievous kitties), and I put them on my sister’s sofa, and I rehung my old valances, thus changing my room back to the colors and patterns I love. As I stood there staring at the sofa, I said out loud, “Could that sofa possibly look any better?”
I guess the answer is Yes, it could. With George Clooney on it, even if he’s sleeping in his clothes.