For fun, I have decided to expound on the dream I mentioned in The Beloved Breakfast Hour.
Michael and I were engaged. My brain created a semi-tropical loveland supposedly called Japan, where we sat on romantically carved benches along a walkway framed in lush, green trees. Just a little ways off the walk stood each of our houses, cozy cottages.
Alas, it was time for dinner! So we agreed to meet later--8:00 pm, precisely. While at home waiting, I rearranged some things in my bedroom (a blend of memories: my mother's dresser, the shape of my crazy room in Atlanta, little items of mine strewn here and there). As I tidied, my finger brushed an outlet and suffered a sparking. Quite promptly, I received a ridiculous phone call from "the doctor." She told me the hospital had been notified of a potentially harmful shocking at my residence and requested a check-up immediately.
"But I have an appointment to keep!" I protested. She assured me it wouldn't take long.
At the hospital, which looked suspiciously like a stale, colorless version of the bedroom I'd just left, I underwent test after test. Shots, blood pressure, weigh-ins, urine samples--all in a pale green patients' gown. Wide open in the back, true to tradition. The nurses shoved me back and forth as I noted with awful sadness that it had already passed 8:00 pm. Poor Michael, waiting all alone on that lovely path under the trees. He would wonder where I was. Would he think I had decided to busy myself with "better things?" I submitted to the doctors sullenly, reclining on one of their papered beds. They were liars, these people. And it didn't help my mood one bit when a nurse told me belittlingly, with punishment in her voice, "Your armpits are stronger than your abs."
The nerve! As far as I was concerned, the doctor visit was OVER. I wanted to see Michael. He didn't care if I had a wimpy tummy!
At least I woke up smiling at the silliness of it. I could have been annoyed...because it's true. My armpits are indeed stronger than my abs.