Our eyes have met
Our lips, not yet
But -- oh, you kid! -- I'll get you yet!
This post has nothing to do with Maundy Thursday, or with the Triduum in general, or with theological profundity of any kind. (If you can find theological profundity in it, you win an honorary doctor's beret.) No; this is one of those annoying watercooler moments when someone feels compelled to tell you all about the weird dream she had last night while you nod politely and brux your teeth because you so don't care. But this is my blog, and I can write about anything I want on it; learn to deal.
Anyway, in my dream, I'm on a first date. (The big tipoff that this is indeed a dream.) Actually, the object of my desire is spending an entire day with me, in a home I wish were mine in real life. We've just had a lovely dinner for two, which has inexplicably involved enough pots and pans to stock a Williams-Sonoma store; so we're doing dishes. Our soapy hands brush against one another. We exchange meaningful looks. I'm leaning over, just millimeters -- millimeters, gentle readers! -- from my sweet baboo's cheek, about to engage in a soulful, sudsy kiss...when someone interrupts us. And this scenario happens over and over and over again, in an escalating comedy of errors involving my deceased father come back to life, a lecherous stranger who looks like Onslow in "Keeping Up Appearances" and his vengeful wife, and the sudden realization that I'm AWOL from a very important out-of-town meeting for work. The best we two thwarted lovers can manage are occasional wistful gazes, from a distance, amidst the chaos.
"Drat," I thought when I woke up. (That's not really the word I used, but this is a family blog.)
I'm thinkin' we probably don't need to page Dr. Jung to catch the drift of this particular message from my unconscious.
Suddenly I have a burning desire to wash lots and lots of dishes. Where's the Palmolive?