I often let my dream life show me where I'm going, or where I've been, and my first sugarless week I dreamed of sweet things, lamenting a half-licked lollipop, or arguing with friends about the merits of Rocky Road. Obvious enough.
It's been twelve days now, and last night I dreamed I was in China. I walked the streets and photographed everything. I couldn't wait to edit the photos, and then to put it all into words. I woke and wanted to run away from home, and since I couldn't run, I wanted to pull the covers over my head and huddle the day away.
I used to pity people who had no desire to travel, people who've always lived in the town where they grew up. I used to look at them as if they were from another planet. Now I think that must be the planet of contentment, and I feel only envy. How must it be to be completely fulfilled with where you are right now? I have glimpses of that, when I'm snuggled up with R and Buckaroo on Saturday mornings or when Sweet P and I are giggling at Glee, when we're all skating on the lake at sunset. Even in those moments, though, I know the morning will come when I want to grab my passport and flee.
I've felt that travel tug while high on Twinkies, though, so I'm guessing the sugar was not deadening that desire so much.
Then as I spread peanut butter and honey on bread for the kids' lunches, I found myself asking: What is wrong with me? It's certainly not the first time I've asked myself that question, but in the past I've always silenced it with a nice hot mocha and a cream puff.
Well, I didn't eat those things, and I still don't have the answer. All I know is that I've hit the crankypants stage of Discovery, as the Wise Woman said I would. I hope it blows over quickly or I may be divorced and friendless by the time it's done.