Cruise Control

It's the middle of the night, and I've woken drenched in sweat. Maybe a hot flash. Maybe.

I had been dreaming that I was on a cruise. Every man who has ever claimed to love me was there. A nightmare, obviously. My subconscious doesn't trust my judgment though, so on the off chance I settled happily into dreamland thinking I was on some sort of floating paradise, the ocean outside my porthole was littered with icebergs. Subtle.

Love. Disaster. Sometimes it's difficult to know the difference. I was in every scene, but more as an extra than a key player. Men -- the men in my life -- waved their penises at each other (no, not literally), puffing their chests out, ruffling their feathers. They pumped their fists at each other but kept their eyes fixed on me. Like pins in a voodoo doll, the punches left visible scars on the guys but landed deep in my own gut. It's so nice to be loved.

Had I not woken in a sweat, I imagine the dream would have ended with me watching helplessly from the deck of the ship as the men in my life, the men who have "loved" me, jostle their way into the nearest life boat, throwing punches all the while. I toss a few kicks and jabs of my own, but they land in air. I scream but nobody hears.

Except for the noticeable absence of strategically placed dispensers of hand sanitizer, the nightmare was frightening in its "realness." No wonder I was sweating. I listened for the sound of Celine Dion belting out My Heart Will Go On; my pulse slowed and my body cooled when all I could hear was the sound of Manny snoring. I had made it through. Somehow, I had caught a life boat after all.

So now what? I am off the sinking ship, the one where "women and children first" somehow turned into "every man for himself." I am adrift, sometimes, and the water is still littered with hidden mountains of razor sharp icebergs, with men who will show love in odd ways. But I am learning to navigate, to steer clear of what lies beneath the tips.