lunes, abril 18, 2011

One eensy-weensy-teeny little thing results in a burnt forehead

After, oh, about 9 or so years, my Ex, who always did have a way of finding me when I had already put him out of my mind, friended me on Facebook.  It took me about two weeks to decide if I'd accept this particular friend, more so because I've come to know my weaknesses.  I figured since he now lives 1000 or so miles away, I could accept safely.  But my burnt forehead may prove otherwise.

That was about 2 years ago, and now we've spoken on the phone a couple of times, for two hours or so each time.  We have always had a lot to talk about.  We talk over each other.  Being friends was never the problem.  We excel at it.  But, ever since then, I've been having dreams in which Ex is the star.  Only a couple, but they were quite vivid, the most vivid I have had in a long time. 

1.  Battle of the Scandinavian-design furniture.

In this dream, Ex and I are living together in the apartment I currently own.  The place is decorated in much the same way it is in real life, with most of my dad's old furniture and art on the walls.  The piece of furniture in question is this wall unit that currently lives in my mother and stepfather's apartment in Virginia, which I have coveted since I was a little girl.  It is sleek and simple, mahogany wood, clean lines, quintessential Scandinavian design.  A testament to my stepfather's impeccable taste in furniture.  Anyway, I had fought long and hard to wrestle that wall unit away from them, and I used it to proudly display my stereo (record-player included, thank you very much), my pride and joy record collection (The Who to Ravi Shankar to Fleetwood Mac to Gladys Knight to Louis Armstrong), various tchotchkes and family pictures, and my beautiful orchid plant.

Ex and I used to live with this dude, AH, and he starred in the dream as co-conspirator.  He did not live with us in the dream, but thanks to Ex and him being friends well beyond our living together and subsequent falling-out (my and AH's), he often sat on my beautiful, beige, very expensive couch smoking cigarettes in his cocky, self-centered way.

In pre-bedbug NYC, one could often find nice furniture and accessories on the curbs.  So one day, Ex and AH find this ugly-yet-utilitarian desk/bookcase hybrid monster from IKEA near our apartment and bring it inside.  They can't figure out where to put it, so they get rid of my precious wall-unit and Ex plops his computer on this new monster and sets to work writing a song.  Brilliant, to be sure, but I come home and freak out, and like a television sitcom, the dream closes with a close-up shot of me, my mouth hanging open in anger and disgust.  And the worst part, the IKEA monster had a big gash in its side.  Ex made me feel like the bad guy for wanting my wall-unit back, that I was too wrapped up in possessions. 

Conclusion:  God saved both of our lives by breaking us apart, for if we had stayed together, we would have eaten each other's souls. 

Why?  Fundamental differences in the way we live.  He doesn't care about things being pretty.  He cares more about whether they are useful to him or not.  I, on the other hand, care very much about things being pretty.  If I made a list of how my days are spent, you would see that a lot of my time is spent either in the shower washing my hair and body with all manner of flowery/sugary/fruity shampoos and gels or in the mirror, blow-drying and straightening my hair into graceful submission, every bang laying just so, or in front of the mirror applying and re-applying makeup.  True, some days, I don't care how I look, but most days, I "girl out", as another boyfriend put it.  This need for things to be pretty reaches out its tentacles to most aspects of my life.  I carry pretty purses.  I love pretty furniture.  I like it when it's really useful, but prettiness trumps all.

I very much resented Ex's friendships with people I couldn't stand.  First there was AH, which I've already covered.  Then there was Anna, this Polish emo/manic depressive chick who used to live with us.  AH and I couldn't really stand her much if at all, and it didn't help that her and Ex would take long walks together and that one day, I came home to find her little mary jane shoes placed ever so neatly on the floor beside my bed.  I don't remember having asked questions about that, but I remember fuming for days.  And then there was that little hipster girl who lived in SoHo who I loathed, but to whose apartment I was often dragged in the name of pot delivery.  All Ex's other friends, I quite liked.

So yeah, extremely different lives to say the least.

2.  My credit card, myself.

Last night's dream involved me living in a strange house in a suburb of some city, snow covering the ground.  Ex was visiting or something to that effect.  I remember waking up in the morning to find my credit card stolen and him sleeping with another woman in this, my house. 

The credit card represented me, and not because he stole me.  I lost myself completely in that whole mess.  The other woman may or may not have represented another woman, but if anything, it represented the fact that I ended up not trusting him much and if something was amiss, it was almost always his fault.

Which brings me to the burnt forehead.  Since I have been speaking to Ex, I have 4 new burns.  The first two are on my wrists from when I was making grilled cheese sandwiches and not paying attention to my arms.  The other two are on my forehead and neck, respectively, and came from mishaps with the straight-iron.  Now, I have been straight-ironing my hair since December 2003.  One would think I know what I'm doing.  Thankfully, the burn on my forehead can be concealed by my bangs, and the one on my neck is way in the back under my hair.  But the ones on my wrists make it look like I have been trying to kill myself.

This could be me going through an accident-prone time.  It happens.  This could also be me having things on my mind, things that I had put away a long time ago, and therefore just not paying attention.  I'm not sure.  But my hairdresser thinks it's the latter.  As much as I emphasize knowing thyself, often other folks know me better than I know myself.  So he may be right after all.  Queer guys are usually quite insightful.

(Now we'll see if Ex really does read my blog.)

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