I've been dreaming of footwear.
I don't usually dream. Or I don't remember my dreams.
I complained about my pitiful dream life to my brother's girlfriend last week. "I'll send you a dream," she said. The next morning I awoke still feeling the soft brown suede of a pair of boots I'd worn in the dream. It was almost all I remembered. There had been a party. Supposedly with friends, but in real life, I didn't know these dream people. They vaporized when I opened my eyes. The boots though. Over -the-thigh supple tawny suede with variegated brown and white fur at the top. What my daughters and I might have once called "hooker boots."
This morning it was shoes. Black. Brown. Pumps. Sandals. Round-toed flats with ankle straps. I'd gone to my new book club meeting with two bags of them. I was in a hurry and couldn't decide what to wear. Late--because I had my mother in tow. I abandoned her unceremoniously at the door of the bathroom and went into an alcove where one of my fellow readers--a demure Asian woman--sat in a chair with a book. The room was nearly dark, and there was a bed jutting from one of the corners. After a brief hello from a tallish thin man who looked a bit like Errol Flynn, he and I began pulling off our clothes (was he wearing a cravat?) and dove under the covers. Enthusiastic sex ensued. Never mind my mother wandering alone somewhere in a house she was unfamiliar with. Never mind the reading woman in the chair. We could hear the hum of voices getting louder. Drinks being poured. "I thought I saw Denise come in," someone said from the next room.
When Mr. Flynn and I were finally sated, I was a bit embarrassed and began to throw on my clothes. The shoes--oh my god, the shoes. Which ones should I wear? Wait--there were no matched pairs.
I woke up feeling anxious and guilty. I'd just had sex with someone that wasn't The Man Who Loves Me. Wait! Hadn't he said he'd go to book club with me? Was he in the next room while....then I came to my senses. It was just a dream. And those shoes--I didn't own any of them in real life. Which leads me to ponder shoes. The Little Missus is into shoes in a big way. A closet full of Christian Louboutins, I've been told. Is that why I'm dreaming about shoes?
2 comments:
That's a terrific re-telling of a dream -- and who knows what it means? Surely, you're allowed to have fancy dreams, archetypal sex, etc. as much as The Little Missus.
I had a dream years ago about shoes that I used as a basis for a paper I wrote titled, " Shoes, Socks, and my Sister" for my first writing class in college. Ten years later I ran into the woman who taught that first class and approached her saying, " You may not remember me, but ..." to which she responded, " Of course, I remember you, you wrote a paper about your sister that made me cry."
Your dream reminded me of that whole experience, my dream, writing the paper, and her words years later. While I can't begin to figure out your dream, (I think only you really can despite books to the contrary) I bet you have a good idea what it means. I do need to say as someone who frequently pulls writing material from my own dreams ... you have loads of great stuff in yours.
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