I just woke up from a very bad dream. The short version, without the part where I took off the door of the blue VW Rabbit with my hands and put it into the car trunk: I was competing with a woman for a very handsome man’s attention. The other woman was sometimes my mother and sometimes my sister. (Go, Freud.)

The man came for dinner and I went into the bathroom to put on makeup. I looked in the mirror and I had sprouted a smattering of hairs, small and unattractive as blackheads, between my usually decently-maintained brows. My face was ruddy and breakouts threatened everywhere. My eyes, which are fairly large, were small and piggy, and when I went to put on makeup, I found they were puffy and red-lined, as if I had been crying. No matter what I did, I couldn’t seem to put together a face to meet the faces that you meet.

And then a man who was either my father or my Dominant (yes, Sigmund) came in and lectured me sternly. He said that I had wrongly set my cap on my sister’s suitor. He told me clearly that I had better stop flirting with my sister’s fiance and adjust my attitude. I should realize that happiness doesn’t depend on one person; once I found another fellow to fixate on, I would feel the same as I did for the man in the living room.

I bit my tongue; you don’t tell your Dominant (or your Father) that he’s wrong, certainly not in dreams. But I knew that this man who had come to see my sister was the one for me, and that there wasn’t another like him. And so I finished making up a face and went out to see them . . .

A nightmare.


Photos by Guy Bourdin, via Pony Express.