I wasn’t going to write this. I only remembered one very short dream this morning, and it’s one of those you could almost classify as a nightmare.
I was looking in the mirror. As usual, I couldn’t see my face. My reflection was standing there naked but it wasn’t the reflection I’m used to at all. I had to be at least seventy five years old. Wrinkled fingers gently rubbed a nasty dark purple bruise below what should have been a fairly cute navel. It wasn’t cute anymore. I couldn’t even look at the bruise because my eyes were glued to one of those straight line skin folds instead. I was part rhinoceros! It’s a good thing I couldn’t see my face. I probably would have had a huge horn on my nose. Anniceros Unicornis.
With some difficulty I tore my gaze away and looked up, maybe a mistake. My boobs were sagging and pathetic prunes, with nipples that had lost all color and definition. And the saddest part was that all I could think when I was looking at them was, “Damn! I still can’t pass a pencil test!” Some dream.
So you can see why I wouldn’t want to write that. But then I thought maybe the fact that I didn’t want to write it was exactly the reason I should. Because the fact is, it wasn’t a nightmare. Not even close. I wasn’t horrified that I was old and wrinkled. I didn’t really care that my body wasn’t cute anymore. My only two emotions were of wonder and disappointment.
Saggy bOObies is not what I want to write about. What I want to write about is that once I dream something, it becomes almost permanent. I can revisit it and sometimes even see things that I missed while I was dreaming. It’s mine to play with until I’m tired of it or often until I dream it again and the new dream changes it.
My reflection’s body is still mine as I write now. I can see the wrinkled fingers on the keyboard and my skin and flesh sagging on my forearms. I can reach over and take a pencil from the cup with a shaky hand and push one of the squishy prunes over it and make it stay! Now that I’m typing in the nude in a freezing cold room, I can even see a little definition in the other prune. It almost looks like a boob again, well as much as it ever did. I can look in the mirror as if I’m still dreaming. I can lift the rhinoceros fold and see my cute navel still hiding there.
The bruise is gone now. I think I got it from wearing jeans with a button.
I can even look up and see my face that I couldn’t see in my sleep. Good grief! I still wear a pony tail at seventy five. I don’t dye my hair, I like it white. There is no horn, just the little ski jump that everyone else thinks is cuter than I do. I’m still wearing earrings just to keep the holes from closing up. My eyes are still the same dark brown. My face is shaped differently now but I’m okay with it. There is nothing boyish about it at all anymore. I’m an old lady. And I’m beautiful.
Growing old is going to be okay I think.
Wouldn’t it just be super cool if I could remember all the things that happened to me in the next fifty years? I would be like psychic and stuff! No such luck. I do see things ahead of time once in a while like the Annie Oakley thing I already wrote about, or like dreaming about Jessi and a couple of the other kids in our kindergarten class before we moved to a different state when I was five and I hadn’t met any of them yet. But it’s always something that I will see by the next day when it happens, and obviously I see lots of things that never do.
Oh and since I’ve already established that I dream real things, the fact that I’m seventy five proves the world is NOT going to end in 2012! So y’all out there sayin’ so can just shut up now!
© 2010 Anne Schilde