I had a dream about Hector from The Electric Company last night and awakened feeling like a 15-year-old who just had her first kiss. In other words, awesome.
I googled Hector to see just how indecent I was for having impure thoughts about him, although our encounter was admittedly innocuous in the grand scheme of those kinds of dreams. Thankfully, I was much younger in my dream and he is actually 25 in real life, so I make out slightly less cougar-y. The dream was quick. We were sitting in the back seat of a moving minivan, or a car, when our hands found each other’s for the first time. My fingers danced around his palm, our gaze locked, his hand roved over mine and we eventually kissed. Softly, he placed his hands beneath my hair at the nape of my neck, looked at my face and he kissed me. It was so sweet and so simple. And unbelievably electrifying.
I miss those days.
It used to be so exquisite. A minor brush of a hand would send shivers up my spine and the mere idea of certain lips touching mine would take my breath away. I desired nothing more than a kiss to send me a mile high.
I still feel that way. But I’m six years of marriage and two kids past the point of such innocent excitement, not to mention a couple years of therapy and one spiritual path beyond anything extramarital. I truly dig my husband, I’m glad he’s my partner and I love him infinitely more deeply than I did when the hope of his kiss kept me awake at night. I actually even like him more than I liked my dream Hector.
Still, times get hard in a marriage. Young children take everything out of us. We know each other so well there’s no mystery. Sometimes, there’s actually even a formula. This lack of newness and comfy-style romance seems to be status quo among girlfriends in my comp set. Nonetheless, oh, how I would love a good old-fashioned high school make out.
And, here, very deftly, my higher self steps in like a bouncer and removes me from my adolescent reverie. Sometimes I get belligerent and the bouncer calls for reinforcements; sometimes my thoughts skulk reluctantly back to the straight and narrow; other times I’m so relieved someone steps in to save me from myself that I actually thank God for sending the thought bouncer and kicking out the Emily I don’t want around. She keeps me from being my highest self, and she prevents me from feeling grateful for all the wondrous blessings (read: a bitchin-bad husband) already around me. That chick can be a little bit of a lynx.
It takes some work, but I technically know better than to get carried away down the path of sense pleasure. I have a choice: I could loll the day away in search of adolescent passion, or unhealthy food in quantity, or gossipy conversation, or whatever the object in question. Or, I could chase the ever-new joy that comes with meditation. No contest. Where it’s really at is the God high. Nothing is more of a rush, albeit to the body’s higher—rather than the lower—energy centers. That’s the good shit. Nothing compares. Not even kissing Hector in the back seat of someone’s mom’s minivan.