It’s sometimes hard for people to tell, but I know that television isn’t real. I mean, I can’t have a normal conversation in my own life without invoking some quote, idea, or concept that I picked up from a show on television. Doesn’t even have to be a good program, just one that grabs my attention for that two seconds to be imprinted on my brain. It’s a damn nuisance too, because I can’t remember what I did three hours ago, but I can tell you what Phil was wearing when the first place team came in to win the Amazing Race last season.
I do know that it isn’t real. This isn’t Facts of Life and Mrs. Garrett isn’t going to come to my house to dispense her motherly advice when I accidentally trash my car or make me hot chocolate when I can’t sleep because I’m worried about my son having his first sleepover with a friend whose family I don’t know especially well. But, oh how I wish it WAS real, that I could have someone like Mrs. G take the burden of worry off of my shoulders and allow me to float along unconcerned and blissfully ignorant. Oh, I wish…
My mind is one of those machines that functions equally in reality and fantasy, and I believe that I have willfully created it to act that way. Not that I have had an especially terrible life that needs to be sprinkled in glitter and rainbows, but I have found myself bored, even unimpressed with some of the choices I have made. I don’t even think I would be taking the time to write all of this down if I wasn’t feeling a need to create and alter my universe. Never completely happy for where I am or where I could be.
Shit, now I’m sounding melancholy, but that really isn’t what I am trying to say. I have loved the greatest love in my dreams and I have imagined I’ve won the lottery and strewn money down on my family and friends. I have been tied down and run over by a murderous ex-choir teacher and I have been hunted throughout my childhood home by murderous dark cloaked invaders. It is exhausting, but exhilarating having these thoughts, even when some of them make me sneer at the life I am really living.
I have this game that I play in the shower almost every day. I transport myself into a moment of a movie or show that I love and act it out as I wash myself clean. I have talked more to my bathroom wall than my own husband. #Truth. My shower curtain saw me cry when Cory Monteith died, saw me rip a new one into Jack Torrance when he came after me with a knife, and has even heard me sing Whitney Houston’s version of The Star-Spangled Banner. The best part is that my curtain cannot talk back. It can’t make me feel small or untalented, because it just hangs there and shelters me in my little cocoon of unreality. My shower has convinced me that I can out sing Karen Carpenter. Hmm, I spend way too much time in my shower.
My husband, Greg, is my best friend in the entire world. He has seen me do shit that I might jump off a bridge for, if it ever got out to the masses. He has my back, and I appreciate it. The thing is, he isn’t knocking my socks off like I dream Nathan Fillion would if he ever let me within ten feet of him. He isn’t singing me pretty songs or taking me on a private jet to have dinner in Las Vegas. He’s just there. For me. Making me crazy and making me think. Loving me and loving our son. Doing my laundry and washing my car. Wait, maybe he is knocking my socks off—if only to get them into the washing machine!
Anyway, I suspect that even if Greg could be the most perfect man in the universe, it still wouldn’t make me completely content with my life. Something out there has got to be better. Someone has got to be out there that will love me more. Someone has got to be out there that will make me feel like there is no more beautiful person on earth than me. But probably not, because I do know that it’s not real.
I just love the beautifulness of creating my unreal reality. It would probably surprise many people to know how much these good and bad fantasies determine how I interact with them in the world. If I’ve had a dream heavy night of trying to hook up with Darren Criss (and believe me there have been a lot of nights where I have tried to hook up with Darren Criss–damn, I’m such a dirty old lady), but things just don’t play out, my co-workers feel the punch the next day. I’m not even kidding, I am seriously that far gone. But it’s all good. When things do work pretty awesomely in my dreams I’m your best friend in the world—at least until the next day. I am nothing if not well balanced. Insert eye roll here.
As much as I like to torture myself and bitch at myself for choices that I have made in life, I have to say that I am almost fully content. My little family unit is just as fun and functional as a cute pair of sneakers and I wouldn’t want it any other way. Except for when I want it another way. That’s why I’m probably never going to change this part of my personality and I am going to embrace it for what it is, a tool that I use to spur myself on to greater ideas. I may end up a little schizophrenic once in a while, but, hey, who doesn’t. I am convinced that all of this craziness makes my life better, or at the very least makes for some really interesting stories!
© DRB 2015