The Way Things Go

I had a very good dream last night.  I hesitate to tell you because you'll make judgments and psychoanalyze me and determine once and for all I'm completely narcissistic and boring.  But that's what this blog is about, my narcissism, and if you haven't figured that out by now I just don't know what to tell you.

My dream, which I don't remember very well now, but which felt very real and pleasant at the time, was like some sort of beauty revue, except all of the faces in the revue were mine.  And it was like I was being a very objective reviewer of all these faces flashing by (were they pictures?  floating heads?  I don't know.  dreams are weird).  And I was able to objectively say, Yes, she looks beautiful right there, and yes, I really like how she looks, and yes, she (I) can rest now because she is (I am) finally a beautiful woman.

Quit it.  Stop analyzing me.  It was just a dream.

But the thing I remember most was just that feeling of relief.  Like:  phew.  Don't have to worry about the appearance anymore.  I have achieved beauty nirvana.  This might have to do with my first and recent trip to the dermatologist to deal with my face bumpies (which aren't milia after all, and which require this horrible process called electro-dessication to remove.  It's beyond foul and horrific, and I'm both haunted and fascinated by it).  I've been thinking about my face a lot.  But that's for another post.

Anyway, I was having that lovely dream, and then 6:30 in the morning came and ruined it.  And guess what?  6:30 in the morning is when my eyes open because my evil children and husband are all morning people and have plotted against me to ruin my natural habits, which are to sleep in and pretend the world doesn't exist for as along as humanly possible.  Actually, 6:30 is sleeping in.  Usually one mammal or another wakes at 5:30.  They're all horrible, horrible mammals, these mammals I live with.  And so 6:30 is when my eyes open.

Except at 6:30 in the morning this morning, my eyes wouldn't open.

Well, my right eye wouldn't open.

Because I had pink-eye.

Nobody else in the house has pink-eye.  Not even Milo, and he does all sorts of things with his poo nobody should do.  And I can guarantee I wash my hands more than anyone in this house.  You may have seen me today, and I might have even hugged you.  I washed first, I promise.  And the pink-eye is mostly gone now; it wasn't a bad bout.  But my point is that it was jarring, maybe even mentally scarring, to go from being very beautiful and relieved about my beauty struggles in my dream to going to the mirror where my eye was squozed shut and oozing and my hair was all stuck out and I was wrinkled and still had bumpies.

And we don't even need to talk about what happens when I'm wearing a stretched out jammified tank top with no bra, if you know what I mean.

That's all I'm saying.

Don't leave any comments saying I AM beautiful or I'll just feel as if you've totally missed the point of this post.

Which is:  where the crap did I get pinkeye?

The universe is cruel.