I woke up angry. As my eyes opened slowly to find the morning sun peering into the bedroom, I tried to decipher if the movie that I had just lived through was in fact a nightmare, or worse, an unpleasant reality. I rolled over to find my husband’s side of the bed vacant.
The digital clock display let me know he’d left hours ago. Lucky for him, because until I could be sure this was all a dream, I could not guarantee his personal safety.
Coffee helped. As I sipped my brew, I replayed the nightmare. The details were getting fuzzy, but the emotions still ran hot. I remembered walking along the main street of downtown Fergus with a man who looked and sounded exactly like my husband (if he were a sociopath). We were discussing our relationship.
In chilling clarity, my nightmare spouse told me he did not now, nor had he ever loved me, and was thus moving on with his life and suggested I do the same. He had zero compassion. No emotion. No remorse. Relationship over. Just like that. I was dumbfounded.
I was too angry to cry. There were no blunt objects nearby to help me express my emotions either. He just walked into the ocean and out of my life. Wait, what?
I really need to stop watching television before bed. It all made sense now. My obsession with a television series aptly titled The Affair, was feeding my paranoia. Much of this show takes place in an ocean village. The Carpenter and I are into season two and it has sure prompted some interesting discussions. We share popcorn (in separate bowls, of course) and remark at how these characters have steamy adventures in risqué locations, but never seem to have to go to work, or hockey practice, or cut the grass, or do groceries. They just have endless budgets, endless libidos, and really swanky underwear. No body fat. And they never get caught. Fiction.
In a moment of weakness, I found myself watching another show about a cast of beautiful young people, rejects from previous hit shows The Bachelor and The Bachelorette, who are cast off to a luxury resort called Paradise Island. Here they are set up to find love by flirting amongst each other in a buffet of perfect bodies, flawless hair and zero life reality. For weeks, they have no bills, deadlines, or internet access; just pools, hot tubs, an open bar and Cabanas parked on the beach overlooking a turquoise ocean. So real.
What could go wrong? I’d like to find out. Seriously. Someone take care of my life, take away all my responsibilities for three months, ply me with tequila and let me soak in a hot tub on a beach in Mexico, and I promise you I’ll be engaged to Semour the sea turtle by Christmas. No shame. We’ll have a show-mance that will market itself into a line of merchandise, a spin-off sitcom series and a book deal. #Kelmour. The wedding will be epic. The divorce, harsh.
Look, I could spend hours dissecting the hidden message of my recent nightmare, but I think it’s pretty clear: I need a little less time shopping in downtown Fergus and an all-expense trip to Mexico. I’d bring the Carpenter as my Cabana boy (sorry Seamour, I’m taken).
Clearly I need sleep and relaxation – for my sanity, but also for my husband’s safety. Dream on.
