Wifely Dreams

Photo: Dreamy.











I attended my own wedding last night. It was a frustrating dream.

To me, there's nothing better than a dream wedding. Things always go my way, and things always go my way. What could be better than that? In my dream wedding (not to be confused with My Dream Wedding, which sounds like something Mattel would make for Barbie, who everyone knows is a beard for Ken), everything was perfect. That's how I knew it was a dream--well, that and I was super thin. Also, everything was free, which made the Esq supremely happy.

I don't actually want to get married, at least not today (or tomorrow, or two years' from now), because that's something for The Future. Some days, marriage seems right around the corner; other days, it seems far off in the distance, like a scud missile aiming straight for my face. Since I'm divorced, I'm okay with holding out, no matter how many wedding magazines I purchase; I just like looking at the pictures. Also, my Wifely Abilities--cooking, cleaning, raising kids, and caring about cooking, cleaning, and raising kids (or whatever wifey stuff chicks are into these days--knitting and therapy are popular right now)--seem to be diminishing the older I get, and are quickly being replaced by my Girlfriend Abilities, which consist of blogging, bitching, and baking (with a Super-Sized Honorable Mention: CONSTANT PMS). It's not like I started out with a large reservoir of wifely knowledge, though. I figure whatever I don't know, I can learn through YouTube or Wikipedia at a later date. Housewifery for the Helpless, or Common Marital Misconceptions (Misconception #1: Marriage is Murder). There has to be something useful online, a reference or a guide of some sort. Here's hoping.

Okay, the dream. Setting: Cathedrale Notre-Dame-de-Strasbourg (where I've been, incidentally). Everything: perfect. One small problem: I was sitting in the audience, watching myself walk down the aisle, and I couldn't see anything. I felt like I was being interviewed by Barbara fucking Walters; everything had that too-bright, soft-glow look about it. All I could see were blurry shapes and colors, and there were candles and people everywhere, blocking my view--blocking my view of myself. Weird. I remember thinking, somebody better pass me a joint so I can deal with this early-onset glaucoma; it's like I had scratched my eyeballs with rusty railroad spikes, because that is how I roll. The dream was frustrating because all I wanted to do was A) see my dress, and B) figure out what song was playing, but it was near impossible. Finally, towards the end, I saw the dress (flouncy and ice-blue), and heard the song (Ceremony by New Order), and all was well. Those things, combined with 'wedding in France' and the aforementioned 'I was thin and it was free' elements, made it the perfect dream wedding. Not to be confused with My Actual Dream Wedding, which will probably involve a trip to the courthouse, very few people, chocolate cake, and robots--lots of them. Stay tuned.