Day 15. 40 pages, 17,872 words.
I had a dream a few weeks ago. At first I hesitated to blog about it, because it was about a supermodel. I know, right? So ’90s. But I think I come out of this one looking pretty good, plus it was a creepy-arse dream with a creepy-arse plot twist, so strap in.
Okay, so first, those of you gagging to know, the actual supermodel in question was this one. I mean, she’s cute and all, and I’m sure she’s a nice person and an astute businesswoman, but I don’t get why I’m dreaming about her in particular. I did actually have to google for that name – but at least I remember why she was even on my radar. It was a Huffpost (or something) story about “candid selfies” that models on Twitter and Instagram were apparently also touching up, because not even spur-of-the-moment reality is allowed to be real anymore.
Anyway, my point is, totally random. Although yes, I did recognise her in passing once I had googled for the news story. Can you call it “news” when it is about models photoshopping their Instagram selfies? I feel like Joseph Pulitzer is about to stop rolling in his grave specifically to rise up and give me a wedgie for that one. And fair enough.
So, the plot of this dream was strange. Not as strange as the one with the miniature Frank Sinatra and narrated by Rodney Dangerfield, but strange enough. It was some sort of big public place, like the lobby of a hotel. A whole bunch of celebrities were there, doing a sort of dance performance flash-mob thing. I was there by chance and was just checking out the glitterati.
The dance performance was in two parts. The main performer (of which there were twenty or so) would start with one partner, then drop them and start with another. I think it was the plot of every movie involving dancing ever made. Anyway, this model saw me and waved that I should come over, which was flattering. She got her people to recruit me as the second act guy, she apologised to the original second-act guy and so across the floor I went.
“I can’t dance,” I told her. She – of course – assured me that she couldn’t either. Anyway, like I said, she seemed nice. I was already wondering where she was headed with her apparent interest, and at what point it would be presumptuous of me to say I was accounted for. In the meantime, what the heck. It’s just a dance number. And not even a particularly saucy one. Something to anecdote about, that time I was in a flash-mob celebrity interpretive dance routine.
Anyway, then it skipped forward and we were alone together in a hotel room. It’s not my fault, it was the dream! I guess I just didn’t get around to telling her yet. Don’t worry, this is where it gets weird.
She took off her dress, and underneath it her body was … I don’t know, at first it just looked fat. But it was too smooth, sort of lumpy, like melted wax, completely featureless. I realised it was massive scar tissue, like a rubber glove, her entire body was disfigured below the neck. She had no breasts. It was horrific, but I wasn’t shocked or disgusted, I was just sorry that she’d been so hurt, and that she was now showing me for a reason, an intimacy I couldn’t share with her.
I don’t know why it went that far at all, like I say – it was the dream. I had already been rehearsing what I was going to say to her. She was distraught, sharing a lot by showing and telling me, explaining that all the pictures of her were enhanced and photoshopped, and so on. I told her she was still beautiful, still a nice person, and that I would be a lucky man … if I wasn’t already a lucky man, married and with two amazing kids. I helped her get dressed and told her I was sorry for what she’d been through. I think, ultimately, I did the right thing, even if I’d left it too late.
Then I Leaped. I mean woke up.
Something something, male / female cultural expectations, feminism, male entitlement, Let It Go. Man, even my dreams about bikini models are fraught with social meaningfulness.