Last night I dreamed I had the eyes of a goat – horizontal stripes, bright yellow orbs, stubby eyelashes and all. The rest of me was me, but the eyes were just plain weird.
What was the message behind the dream – that I should do something about my facial hair before I grow a goatee? That I’m becoming more noticeably old and cantankerous? Or perhaps that I should stop eating tin cans (or the contents at least)?
I asked my husband, sure his answer would be honest but couched in kindness.
“Well,” he said. “Just before we have this conversation – have you had coffee yet?”
“Great, so you’re not going to go off like a firework.”
I shook my head, took another sip of coffee and bit my tongue.
“Maybe it’s just more crazy stuff your brain comes up with to alleviate boredom.”
“Okay. I needn’t worry then?”
“I didn’t exactly say that,” he said. “Toast. I feel like toast. You feel like toast? Have you had breakfast? I’m making toast.”
As he was making his escape, I clocked myself in the mirror. An enormous hair, snaking out like a serpent from my chin. I mean enormous. As long and thick as a pig bristle. If the pig had been cultivating the hair for twelve years. And dipped it in radioactive waste. And rubbed in some hair-growing cream.
“Holy cow! How long’s that been there?”
He took another step toward the door and laughed nervously. “Ah, a couple weeks.”
“And you didn’t tell me? You didn’t tell me! I can’t believe it! You’re supposed to tell me these things!”
I plucked the hair, stormed to the pantry and scoffed a can of pudding.
Dreams aren’t all about me? Tell that to the cantankerous tin-eating goat lady.
But only after I’ve had my coffee.