Last night, I had a dream. And in this dream, I was playing a weird amalgamation of mini-golf and a video game with two guys, one of whom was Mr. David Beckham. While anonymous guy was struggling with shooting his ball, David Beckham starts hitting on me.
Now, I am not down with adultery, even in my dreams. That just doesn’t fly with me. So, naturally, I’m all like, “Hey, David. What about Victoria? Wouldn’t she be a little miffed at this?” To which he goes off on a spiel which basically boils down to “When I’m around Victoria, she’s the only woman in the world. But if she’s not around, well…” I still didn’t take him up on his offer, because that’s how I roll.
However, the weird thing, the thing that really stuck with me after I woke up, was that my dream self just kept thinking “Why would David Beckham even be interested in someone like me?” In other words, why would one of the beautiful people want to sully himself with an unattractive hag?
And this pisses me off. I mean, damn, aren’t I even allowed to have high self esteem in dreamland? Why would I be preoccupied with my perceived faults rather than going with the dream and being awesome? What does my subconscious have against me?
The really irritating thing is, I’m not even attracted to him. I mean, I realize that he’s an ideal for some women, but he’s just not really my type.
Meh. Too pretty boy for my tastes.
So why was my dream self denigrating my own attributes, and not just dismissing him because he’s not my thing (and, in dream form anyway, a Cheaty McCheater Pants)? What the hell!
My inner feminist is just a little miffed at my subconscious, especially since, in real life, I’ve actually been improving my self-esteem. I’ve been hitting the gym five times a week, seeing a personal trainer, and really improving my health. While there has been weight loss associated with this, I’m far more interested in the improvement of my strength than the numbers on the scale.
For instance, the first session with my current personal trainer involved doing sit-ups. Like actual sit-ups; not crunches, not the ab machine, just plain ole’ lay down and sit all the way up kind of sit-ups. And I won’t lie, they were tough. I struggled. I did them, but I struggled.
A month later, she threw sit-ups at me again. (Obviously, there had been other exercises in between.) And, while I would hesitate to say they were easy, they certainly weren’t a struggle. My trainer even commented, “Are these easier than last time?” And, by jove, they were. I was on air after that. There have been other improvements: my body doesn’t ache like it used to, my mood has improved, I just feel better all around. But the sit-ups were a giant turning point for me.
So why can’t my subconscious get the message?
I want to be strong. I want to be confident. I want to be self-assured. And I want to be this way both in waking and in sleep. And I will be successful in this, yes I will.
So, Mr. Beckham, you can stay out of my dreams. I’ll be doing fine on my own.
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Kathy you are one of the strongest most caring and most awesome friend I know and have. I have no doubt you will be successful in anything your heart commits you too *just a note if you spell commits wrong spell checker comes up with Vomit* If you ever doubt your self come talk to me and the only hag you are allowed to be is my fag hag! *hugs*
It’s okay Kat, Scott and I pulled David into one of /our/ dreams and had a little chat about the pros and cons of being a shallow, womanizing dick (on top of being a severely overrated soccer player with the physique and charm of a storefront mannequin). It turns out that, outside of a purely comedic fictional reality like a sitcom womanizing dicks are actually NOT beloved of society because their shitty behavior isn’t fictional. Once that was settled, we had our way with David. He’s a surprisingly appreciative bottom! =^.^=
Congratulations on the continuing improvements in your workout, gal! It’s a lot harder to nibble away at the limit on how many sit-ups one can do than, say, a cookie.