Sexless in the City

Sometimes reading romance novels doesn’t quite prepare you for a love life...

For this 30-year-old urbanite, love is always a misadventure: The Harvard Lickwit, Hippie the Groper, the 5% Man, and the Ad Weasel. These and many other men wander in and out of her life — but never her bed.

Thursday, January 27, 2005

Daydream receiver

I don’t know why, maybe excessive idleness on my part, but since returning from Cali I’ve had a number of dreams. Some involving cars (I was forced to drive a big one that had really bad mirrors), some involving music (that I wanted to hear again) ... almost all involving men.

This one came last Monday morning after crawling back into bed so I could qualify as sleeping in on both East and West Coast time. The first and more distinct half of the dream had a very limited cast: mostly me and the guy I was stuck on. Curiously this gentleman was played by a long-ago roommate of my brother’s, never mind that he is some years married and the father of a son — that is, in real life. In dream life he didn’t look much like himself or even the profile of an Anna Broadway crush (except blue-eyed*) ... but that’s neither here nor there, as the antiquated saying goes.

Many details now escape me, but despite a mostly friendly tenor to our relationship, I was nonetheless confident my crush-in-dream liked me too. A period of driving ensued, through a forested area. It was like we were driving to a weekend retreat and had decided to carpool. Once there, the two of us (plus perhaps a couple others), found ourselves sitting on the floor our legs crossed Indian style (there seems, mysteriously, to have been faintly Buddhist overtones to this dream, though I do not recall the use of incense, orange, or chanting).

Crush-in-dream was seated at my right, but seated far enough that when a girl came in, she was able to sit down between us ... before proceeding to grab his hand. I turned away to my left, immediately confused. Apparently I had been mistaken and this woman was his girlfriend.

Time passed in the dream, I don’t remember how, but a little while later he came up behind me, gave me a hug, and explained how the girl was just being aggressive, he’d dropped her hand after I turned away, and the reason he wasn’t dating me yet had something to do with my unemployment. Basically, he didn’t want to disrupt my life until I had the stability of a job.

Weird, huh? I tell ya, that contact-high I didn’t think I got the night before must have really addled my brain. That or heater-induced dehydration did a number on me. Also, I think I’ve started an addiction to chocolate. Surely between these varied factors there’s some sort of explanation. Or, as I’m fond of saying (in further evidence of good-girl syndrome**), that dealer of mine must be sellin’ me some mighty bad crack these days.

At any rate, the dream seems to offer me key insight. Clearly the loss of my purity ring is not the problem (I could always buy a new one). The reason I can’t date right now is that I’m not employed! (Significantly, the second part of my dream involved me figuring out a new job as part of the editorial board at a harried college daily.)

Wow ... maybe next time I’ll ask God to give me a dream in which I maintain better eye contact! Because, you see, according an article that Esther showed me, I may have really flubbed a recent date by barely wowing ’im with ma peepers. Gulp. Strangely I am brazen when the gentleman’s no keeper, but shyer than a long-cloistered Amish girl when faced with a guy who’s worth something. We need to work on that ...

But that’s OK! I just need to get a job and that’ll fix everything. (Note: Anna did not say, boob job. This blog will never advocate artificial improvements to one’s sex appeal. Except for lip gloss, hose, and underwear. But those aren’t really fake, right?!! As long as the fabric’s not synthetic, and the lip goop’s all-organic ... it’s all OK.)

[Hyperlinks coming eventually ... but who of you really click those anyway?]

*Though the Captain, as I was recently reminded, has more golden eyes, like the buttery depths of a rum hot toddy. Hm.
**In which a girl tries to talk like she’s experienced, or naughty, or both, and throws out jokingly casual references to things she’d never really do or use. A way of covering one’s tracks, and fitting in; usually adopted as social disguise in early high school.