take one woman with low self esteem, but quite good hair
add one moronic illness
stir in some medication which causes hair to fall out
mix it all up and this is what you get...

Wednesday, June 25, 2008

A rude awakening 

Confusion reigns, as is often the case in my dreams. Anxiety too. The details vary, but the sense of malaise is always the same. I could be missing a bus, a train, a plane. I might have lost my purse, my bag, my marbles. My legs, arms or hands don't seem to work, or work so sluggishly as to be at best frustrating, at worst, useless. Whatever I'm trying to do in my dreams - and it's usually vitally important - is being hampered by bad luck, physical shortcomings or bizarre logistical problems. I call these my anxiety dreams.

It is during one such mind muddle that I am suddenly aware of the duvet being ripped off me, my real (not dream) body exposed to the cool morning air in a most unexpected fashion. I manage a whimper, the pathetic-ness of which surprises even me. I furrow my brow and whine at the culprit beside me:

"You pulled the duvet off me!"

His look is one of utter bewilderment. As usual, when waking, he has little idea of what he's doing.

"S-sorry, I thought I was... I thought I was pulling it off myself..." he tails off, aware of how absurd his explanation is. He bundles me up again in the duvet and gathers my embundled self into his arms.

"I'm sorry, love" and he makes his exit. It must be time to get up.

I settle back down for a snooze, but before I have a chance to rest my head on the pillow, I am aware of the bedroom door creaking open, the padding of soft feet on the wooden floorboards and a tiny squeak. The cat, released from her downstairs incarceration, is ready for her morning cuddle.

Any plans I may have had for a snooze are now obliterated, as she jumps lightly and nimbly onto the bed and starts frantically kneading my chest (which I have taken care to cover with the duvet) and tickling my already pollen-ridden nose with her fluffy face. After a few minutes of sitting down, lying down, gazing adoringly, standing up, kneading and turning round (repeat, ad nauseam), she leaps over to the opposite corner of the bed, where she looks expectantly from me to the closed window blind.

Her work is done. I am now truly, indisputably awake. I drag my reluctant self from my horizontal position, grab my dressing gown and raise the blind just high enough for her to sit on the windowsill and survey her domain.

I shuffle sulkily downstairs and make a cup of tea. My day, like it or not, has begun.

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