One of the entertaining aspects of being completely incapable of getting a good night’s sleep these days is being able to remember the dreams I have. I’m actually awake long enough to acknowledge them, think about them, and give each a kind of evaluation. Nothing complicated. Just a sort of, “Whoa. That was interesting…” and it crops up through the day as I’m putzing around. A doozie will actually garner a mention of the dream to someone.
I was in my less than lovely lounging attire: flannel and beyond silky soft with wear jammy bottoms, a grungy blue tee, and an old Eddie Bauer oversized so not matching blue plaid shirt. It’s day time, or as much daytime as my dreams ever are. It’s my mother’s old neighborhood. The one we lived in the longest in the house right next door to my best friend’s house. I actually wonder whether her mother still lives there in all of this strangeness. There are lots of people standing behind yellow plastic Do Not Cross tape and a tall thin man in a great suit is striding away from where I’m standing with the crowd in the street. They’re cheering and pointing at him as I walk toward him, never quite seeing his face.
No one tries to stop me as I approach him, catching up.
I reach around from behind to embrace him as one might someone they care about and haven’t seen in a while completely unaffected by the oddness of this situation I find myself in.
“I missed you,” I say to him, wrapping my arms completely around until they meet and I clasp my hands at his waist.
“Why?” he answers softly. “I’ve been here all the time.”
“Because I spend all day reading and thinking about you,” I tell him, picturing time spent on the Internet seeing his face in a story here and and an article there.
How romantic, but it’s a bit strange when I consider that the man is not the MoH, it’s Obama.
So, first of all, I don’t spend my day reading about him on the Internet. In fact, I’m quite bad at reading news on the Internet period. My “homepage” is Google. So I see bits and pieces of news on the television in passing if the news is on, or hear snippets on NPR in the car while running errands and shuttling kids to and from school. I do keep my eye on the goings on and do tune in when yet another primary is approaching just so I can make sure I’m still as sick as I was of the pundits and their crap as I have been all along.
It sounds like a big fat load of excuses, doesn’t it?
And couldn’t I just dream of maybe seeing him? You know, in passing after a speech or something? That might be a tad more normal, don’t you think? Slightly?
I actually remember thinking in the dream that I could, clad as I was in my beyond tacky house potato attire, shed a poor light on his quest to be our next president. That people may not vote for him because some deranged woman, who surely must know that Michele Obama would be kicking her ass for touching her man, was, erm, touching her man. Embracing him. In public. With a crowd standing by.
Of course I had to consult with a dream interpretation source. I filed through the alpha list of “characters,” impatiently looking for what character Obama might represent while on my way to the “P” section. Politician, right?
Celebrity…Godzilla…Hero…Lawyer…Mummy…President…Wet Nurse? But no politician.
What does it suggest when one can find dream interpretations for a wet nurse, pervert, or a zombie, but not a politician and I’m dreaming about one?
Okay, so maybe it’s more about a feeling and not a character. The source mentions that dreaming of love denotes “intense feelings carried over from a waking relationship. It implies happiness and contentment with what you have and where you are in life.”
Whew. It had me going for a while to think that maybe my subconscious had the hots for the next President of the United States. Let alone that I’d be stoopid enough to go out in public in my slovenly comfies. After all, he does have very nice suits. I would only look that much worse standing next to him.
Or embracing him.