I woke up screaming and sobbing in the middle of the night last night.
It’s never happened before, and V. was really nice about it, holding me and patting my back until I finished crying, which took me a while. Then he asked what I’d dreamed about, expecting perhaps some tangled up story of monsters, tsunamis and fashion disasters, the latter being the thing he imagines to be causing most of my nightmares. In fact, this time I’d had a truly horrible, evil dream.
We’d somehow finally gotten a mortgage and, even more surprisingly, found the perfect house (wish I’d at least remember what it looked like, but I can assure you it was absolute perfection). Now, you’d think that my dream version of ourselves couldn’t be happier. And we were. For about half a second. That is, before we found out that for some reason we couldn’t make our monthly mortgage payments and they were going to kick us out. Screams, tears and waking up in terror ensued.
Of course, V. found all this absolutely hilarious, convinced as he is that I’m the only idiot in the world obsessively panic stricken by the thought of buying a house. And of course, he’s using all of it to his advantage, rushing to hold my hand every time we happen to walk past a “particularly dangerous looking” house. Very, very funny. Not.
Anyway, I’ve written about houses and obsessive house hunting way, way too many times already, so I won’t go into it anymore. But please make a note of the fact that I’m an undeniably super duper complex fashionista, and not all my nightmares have to do with crazy expensive, unearthly sexy, one size too small (oh, the horror!) shoes. Ha!