If you're not, but you'd like to know what goes on in my head during REM stage, feel free to stick around.
* * * * *
I don't know where the husband was. I was still me. Still my age. Still had two boys. But I either wasn't married, or he wasn't relevant to the dream.
I sat on the bed next to the red-headed 20-something year old. He kind of had that lean, athletic, but not filled in kind of body that 20-somethings are prone to have with sky-high metabolisms. That flop of red hair fell over his forehead while he read the letter; I absentmindedly stroked the freckles on his bare shoulders, kissing the nape of his neck.
"I guess I was just elected president," he said, letting the letter drop. I could see the official seal. For some reason, I was neither surprised nor did I find it odd that they'd waived the usual age requirement for the leader of the free world. So what if the next president of the United States looked like a cross between Ron Weasley and Eric Stoltz, was dating a 40+ year old woman with two kids, and was technically young enough to be my son?
He stood up, walking to the window, running his hand through his hair. His face was a mask of concentration, but I couldn't help but notice how the fine hairs on his stomach caught the sunlight. "Well this is going to make your resume interesting," I laughed. "Fast food worker; Spanish tutor; laboratory assistant; . . . President of the United Sates." I got up and walked around to kiss him, but he reached down to pick up the letter, avoiding my kiss.
I felt myself panicking: Was it the kids? My age?
* * * * *
Before I could heap anymore insecurities on the list, I found myself awake in the dim light of morning, my bed occupied by one age-appropriate Dr Chako, who was currently still employed as a doctor.
So what is it? A deep down desire to date a red-headed 2o-something? Or date the POTUS? Or a deep-seated fear of another upcoming birthday?