I don’t think I slept Sunday night. I think it was lingering anxiety over my inability to get to my website. Sundays are always iffy on the subject of sleep, anyway. Willie insists that I did, indeed, sleep, going even so far as to claim that I snored quite enthusiastically as well, but I don’t believe him. Number One, I don’t snore, I’m far too delicate a gal to snore; and Number Two, he’s jealous of my feather pillow and says these things out of spite.
I’ve never been much of a sleeper. Not much of a dreamer, either. People claim that we all dream, but if I remember more than two a year it's cause for celebration. A small celebration, to be sure. But still a celebration.
On the other hand, I do tend to make things up, and that's like dreaming, only more controlled. And with less snoring.
My fantasies started in my childhood. We moved a lot; and while we only moved within Minnesota, I lived in 12 different places and went to nine different schools by the time I graduated. Sometimes it was just easier to stay in the house, if you know what I mean. And while I’m stuck in the house, why not make myself some sort of hero, even if it’s only in my mind?
I had a rich and ego-gratifying dream life. One recurring fantasy involved my traveling back in time and meeting with Abraham Lincoln and the leaders of the Confederacy just prior to the start of the Civil War.
“Gentlemen,” I’d beseech, my arms spread wide, palms up. “The situation has become unbearable. Now let me tell you what I propose…” I then go on, in impassioned and eloquent terms, to outline my plan to both abolish slavery and save the country from the blood bath of the Civil War. By the time I have finished speaking, the Powers That Be are in tears. Leaping to their feet, they embrace each other, calling each other “Brother!” War has been averted.
The date is declared a holiday and my most flattering portrait – the one where my eyes are open and my mouth is closed, rather than the other way around – is hung, banner-like, across main-street intersections in cities and towns across the U.S. This same portrait goes on to be the “heads” side of the wildly popular three-dollar coin, my date of birth emblazoned on the back under the words “Now let me tell you what I propose…”
After that, the sky is the limit. I am invited to lavish parties in Europe where I am seated between Benjamin Franklin and Jesus Christ, who tell me hilarious stories. Benjamin hits on me – like he does all the gals – but Jesus gives me his recipe for a Swiss fondue, which not only eases the awkwardness of turning down the advances of a Founding Father but, written on the back of a cocktail napkin in His Own handwriting, goes on to become a family heirloom.
What can I say? I may have been just a tad geeky as a child.
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