The Sexy stuff

I was inspired to start this blog after devouring Anne Lamott's book on her son's first year as a single mom - Operating Instructions. I was blown away and moved by her bracing honesty and candor, and I felt that in my chronicle of becoming a mom,I should attempt to do the same. Write things down without fear, without afraid of being shocking or gross or worried that my grandfather is reading. I was all set to go.

Until my dream two nights ago.

No way around it - it's flat out embarrassing. I've put off writing about it and considered just ignoring it, but in the interest of being true to my mission statement, I've just got to suck it up.

The other night I dreamed that I tried to seduce Macy Gray.

I know.

I invited her over to my house, and she showed up giggly and possibly stoned. I plied her with cocktails like I was some horny frat boy with a rotten core and when I thought she wasn't too alert or keen to fight back, I went in for the kill. I grabbed her waist, and her body made me shudder. And not in a good way. Her skin felt like playdough, like there were no bones in her body. No rib cage. Just rolly dough skin that I could have probably worn as a blanket.

I don't think I've given an awful lot of thought to Macy Gray either positively or negatively. I've enjoyed a few of her songs, questioned her personal style and sobriety when she's given interviews, but I can honestly say that not once have I ever taken in that helium canister voice and afro and said "DAMN!"

But if I'm to play armchair Freud here, I think what might be going on is that in my dream, I tried to seduce myself, Macy Gray being the ugly mother extension of who I am afraid I am going to become. (My apologies to Miss Gray if she ever reads this). In the dream, I - being a man yet still myself - gotta love dream logic - remember being horrified by her body, how ample and fleshy and distorted it felt. In waking life, I eye my hips and stomach, wondering if the miracle I'm about to experience will be overshadowed by some F-in serious, hardcore vanity. Will my husband be repulsed by me? Will I be repulsed by me? More importantly, if I was in some LA nightclub and ran into Macy Gray, would she be repulsed by me? Or would she be too stoned to care?