A Vision of the Future
I had a nightmare last night...
Not your standard "stuck in the mud while being chased" nightmare, either. No, this was a vision of a surreal, yet wholly believable future. Not a bad vision, either -- just one that I'm clearly not ready for as of this writing.
The year was 2014, and though I looked the same (for the most part) everything around me was older and different. And I was surrounded by some of the strangest costumes I've ever seen. It was only then that I realized my worst fears were becoming reality...
I was at my daughter's dance recital.
It started out innocuously enough. A sea of taffeta and lace paraded around me while I hunted for my wife and child. I'm weighed down by one of those 25lb. film-eating Nikons hanging around my neck, even though no one outside of EPCOT Center has used those since 1988.
I find comfort in knowing that I'm not alone. No less than ten other camera-toting dads were doing their best to maintain dignity while gathering along the far wall. I wander over in their direction, and give them a knowing nod hello. They respond in kind -- wordlessly, but understanding. We're in this together -- words are extraneous.
Finally, through the pink huddled masses, I spot my wife chasing my daughter Sophia around the crowded lobby with a brush and a compact, never losing control of the recital program, bottled water and bouquet of roses expertly cradled under her left arm. Wifey apparently thinks two coats isn't enough blush to fight off those stage lights. As I get over to them, I pull Sophia away from the overzealous Estee Lauder, much to my wife's chagrin.
"Brad - she is going to look completely pasty up there unless I put more on!"
[Sidebar: I nearly woke up from the dream based on this line alone. For starters, anyone who knows Wifey can attest to the fact that she is simply not this kind of woman, wife or mom. Which is why I married her. This alone, is startling. But more jarring is the fact that no man -- father or otherwise -- wants to hear the word "pasty" in a dream about their daughters dancing on stage. Ever.]
I forgot to mention -- in my dream, Wifey is preggo-fabulous again. I have no idea if this is baby #2, or if I'm donating half my salary to child care. Either way, in the alleged safety of dreamland, I'm having very real palpitations. Here, I have no idea if I'm employed, dying from a Velveeta-sized tumor, or simply settled into middle-aged, middle class contentment.
Anyway, as if this little exchange wasn't enough to block an artery, my 8-year old daughter (who apparently is destined to sound like Dakota Fanning) comes up to me and brazenly asks, without so much as a courtesy pause:
“Doesn’t my ass look good in this costume?”
In real life, I would have introduced her palate to Irish Spring. But in this dream -- much like the one where you're falling off a tall, Wile-E-Coyote styled cliff -- I was rendered completely helpless. I nod a limp affirmation and continue surveying my surroundings, praying that my subconscious has provided an exit door.
Damn -- the only escape would set off the fire alarms. Even in this insane dream, I have no balls, or any interest in messing with the authorities.
Suddenly, I am transported to my seat in the cavernous high school auditorium, without even getting to nod a genial goodbye to my menfolk on the wall. At first glance, the room resembles every other school auditorium you remember, right down to the creepy, vacuous, pock-marked teenagers handling the lights and curtains. My wife mumbles something to me about one of the parents sitting a row ahead of us, but I don't hear her. Either this woman is the mother to one of Sophia's classmates, or she just picked her nose and flicked it toward stage left. I'll never know.
The lights dim. We are warned not to use flash photography, "under penalty of law." This dance school didn't mess around. I pack up my Smithsonian-quality zoom lens, silence my phone and wait for my baby girl to hit the stage.
We are then assaulted by grandiose pipe organ music -- the kind that wouldn't be out of place at midnight mass, or Dracula's bar mitzvah -- but certainly wasn't appropriate here. Sophia, alongside fourteen other pre-tween dancers, was clad in an orange spandex bodysuit that left little to the imagination, at least for the Sesame Street faithful in attendance. Looking back, my daughter's outfit looked more like a low cut, shiny road cone, but I digress.
Later that evening, she would take to the stage again, this time accompanied by a Jonas Brothers tune (which is now an ironic classic amongst the 7-14 set) during which the kids thrust out their pelvises, gyrated their hips, and beckoned with come-hither looks – moves that cost their parents over $500 this year in dance lessons, and $15,000 in extra therapy sessions.
“The only thing missing is a pole,” smiled Wifey without even a modicum of concern. Melysa just laughs as my daughter moves like seasoned jailbait -- a graduate of the Hooters Academy -- while a flood of deadbeat dads watch from the wings. And, I can't be sure, but I think she was mocking me while I was squirming beside her.
"Isn't she pretty?" asks Wifey while handing me a tissue to wipe my brow. I once again am rendered speechless, though I do manage to throw a baffled, "what the hell is your issue?" look in my wife's direction.
By now, my mind sorta "fast forwards" through the show. When the final curtain drops, we are giving a standing ovation to all the performers who now once again look and act their age. Melysa waddles her expecting body to the stage to hand our baby her flowers. This time, Sophia is wearing a more traditional tutu and tights ensemble, leading me to believe that I skipped past the always-riveting ballet performances.
(At least my brain got this right. Even though it's my only daughter on stage, I have zero interest in watching a bunch of second graders pretend to be swans.)
Skip ahead a few more frames, and now we're in the parking lot of the high school. My daughter runs over to us while yelling at her friends -- apparently, I'm taking them all for ice cream and a sleepover. I open the back door and she jumps in, excess blush wiping off on my sleeve as she passes by. As I turn to close the door, the dream got even weirder.
Sophia was suddenly just a year old again, and sitting quietly in her car seat. I look closer, wondering if this is maybe another baby of ours (one that we conveniently stowed in the car for two hours) and my 8-year old Sophia was just behind the seat.
Nope.
My baby was back to normal. I look up at Wifey, and she also has reverted back to the way I know her today. No pregnancy. No uber-mom trappings. Just the woman I share a couch with every night. I open my lips to finally say a word and -------------
Blackness.
That's when I wake up, startled but content...and strangely thirsty. I quickly close my eyes to try and "recapture" the dream I just had, but to no avail. It was gone -- vaporized before I even had a chance to have a meaningful discussion with my baby, circa 2014.
And hours later, my head is still spinning. No more beer on Sundays, kids. Let this be a lesson to you all...
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