I used to dream about one of my ex-boyfriends frequently. Many years after we parted ways, he would cameo on the dark stage of my subconscious mind every few weeks, sometimes for a couple of nights in a row. The dreams were always the same: we were at some kind of conference or reception in an architecturally interesting place, and something was terribly out of balance; he was extremely intoxicated or not wearing pants, or I was unable to wake up from a nap or find something or other. Eventually I stopped trying to figure out what it meant and made peace with it, and the dreams pretty much stopped for a couple years. Then, last night, a doozy.
It hung with me throughout the day, and although I have very few, if any real regrets about my life, I couldn’t shake them off this afternoon. It’s not the big stuff that hangs me up. I’ve always done the best I can with what I know, and although there are things I would do differently now, it’s not as if there was a time in my life when I would wake up every morning and think, “Wow, how can I be an asshole today?” I’ve done my best not hurt people, including myself, and karma has taken care of the rest.
The little stuff gets me sometimes, though. What if I had gone to that party that turned out to be pivotal, what if I had gone on that road trip, etc. Its not entirely pointless. There are times when the practice of considering alternate trajectories from one point in my life resolves something and I end up feeling much more calm. But when it’s hormone week and one of my internally famous ex-boyfriend dreams pops up, it kicks my ass a little bit. I’ve gotten better about it, though. A few years ago, one of these incidents would find me crying into a 7&7 with three new pairs of shoes on my credit card. Today, some moping then a yoga class. Onward.
And, for the record, if you’re one of my ex-boyfriends reading this, it’s not you.
