Last night I wore my pajamas to book club. These pajamas are not of the kind that will ever be mistaken for Oprah- loving loungewear. Really they aren’t pajamas at all, but $6.99 Costco pajama pants with holes in them. To complete this glamorous outfit I paired them with one of my husband’s ratty old tee-shirts.
When I leave the book club in a little while, I will have somehow managed to lose these comfortable, but embarrassing pajama pants. I’ll get back to that. In case you’re wondering, this is a dream. In honor of starting NaNoWriMo in two days, I am going to show through this dream that this week, I officially am a brain freak.
I can’t remember the hostess’s name, but at least I had finished the book for this month. I forget that I am the book club secretary until the meeting has been going on for about an hour. Managing to only disturb half the women in the room, I obtain a working pen from a member who is familiar with my scattered ways. She sits clear across the room. About this same time, despite my ready optimism, I realize I read the wrong book. The Book Thief. The Good Thief. The Memory Keeper’s Daughter. My Sister’s Keeper. Who? What?
Thankfully the president calls for our “intermission”. For reasons that I believe are very clear, I love the idea. Everyone else exits the room as if rushing a concession stand for a popcorn refill – or maybe to catch an airplane.
When we reconvene mere seconds later, I am prepared with working pen poised in hand. I am even feeling better about wearing pajamas. The realization that this is not my book club creeps over me slowly – much slower than it should.
They discuss Nietzsche, the Letters of Paul, and the virtues of creating from baked clay from the craft store versus cast bronze sculpting. I believe they are the club of intellectual crafters I’ve been hearing about around town. I brace for an inevitable barrage of patronizing comments concerning my unusual choice of wardrobe.
“Aren’t you just the cutest thing I’ve ever seen,!” says one perky, impeccably dressed woman, whom I know to have a Phd. I remember I forgot to feed Lily the Labradoodle. Wonder about location of car keys. Notice cell phone is dead.
Apparently my book club always meets at the same house as the intellectual crafters. Discretely as possible, I slip out of the room in search of my book club. When I find them, a member is pouring the last drops from a bottle of Veuve Cliquot into a champagne flute. They are eating cake which I recognize from the crumbs as being from my favorite caramel cake. I now get where they were all rushing to. I smile and hope no one noticed my absence.
As I guess goes on at all joint book club/intellectual crafter’s meetings, the paparazzi lurks in the shrubbery awaiting our exit. When I realize my pajama pants are missing, I make myself small behind a strange man. He must be one of the intellectual crafters. I suspect him of being an unabashed publicity hound who would like nothing more than to have his picture taken with a half naked woman. No doubt this would mean he has a better chance of getting in People magazine, or Southern Living, or whatever the hell magazine these photogs work for.
It’s no problem that I can’t find my keys, because I can’t find my car. All I care about is that I avoided having my picture taken. I hitch a ride with a group of strangers in a majorly vast Cadillac convertible from the 1950s.
Six or seven people can sit fairly comfortably across each row. I’m not even sure what direction we are headed or if we even live in the same state. (dream destined to go on and on and on…)
Tell me in the comments if you want me to post the second part of this dream. If a few of you do, I will post it and the rest of you don’t have to read it.I’m lack- of- sleep silly and perhaps a little delusional, but I’m convinced I have the ability to force you to read it, but I’ll let it pass this one time. The interpretation feels pretty straightforward, but if you have any words of enlightenment, feel free to share. xoxoxo