I Know You Think That I Shouldn't Still Love You, Or Tell You That, But If I Didn't Say It, Well, I'd Still Have Felt It, Where's The Sense In That?

--"White Flag", Dido

Continuing the Dido motif...

I love Tuesdays. It's my favorite day of the week. Even better than Saturday, even better than Sunday, Tuesdays for me have long been unofficially my day. And I'll tell you why.

It's the one day of the week I get to nap.

I'm not talking about a short catnap that lasts all of fifteen minutes. Hell's bells no. I am talking about the quality kind of nap that little 'ole me can't get enough of. Ever since I was sixteen I've set aside four to six hours every Tuesday for the last thirteen years just to sleep. Now this doesn't mean I get four to six hours of sleep every Tuesday, but I sure as the sun comes up in the east make sure nothing of any great importance is attempted to the time. I have the same routine each and every single time. I turn off all the lights in my room. I turn off all my phones and computers, anything that could be a distraction. Then all I do is lay in bed willing my mind to surrender to the great stillness of life. I sleep the sleep of a gal empowered enough to know that the most powerful choice a person can make about their life is where and when to slow it down. For all my talk about being the one who's always going, Tuesdays have become the points in my life where I can afford to just stop it all for a second. For one day a week I become as still as a lake in the morning hours just before dawn. For one day a week Breanne is less than she could be willingly.

The other great part of my Tuesdays is that during these naps I have these wondrous dreams that make me feel ever full of hope and contentment. Every time I wake up, it's like waking up from a vacation that you didn't even know you were on. I just wake up with a smile on my face, a carryover from the bliss that has become my weekly visitor as well.

For instance, yesterday I dreamt that somebody loved me and her name was Shelly. I dreamt I was fourteen again and she was turning eighteen. We were in my room and it was eight at night. I was dressed like Snow White and she was dressed like Rebecca Howe from Cheers. And for some reason we were ordering food from the market down the street even though, for the most part, they have never delivered to my parents' house ever. I remember reciting whatever foodstuffs that Shelly would tell me to get, from Arizona Ice Tea to Chee-tos, from Cupcakes to Beef Jerky. It wasn't even a long list, but for some reason the boy on the other end of the phone couldn't keep up with each entry. I had to repeat myself two or three times before he got the gist of what exactly it was we wanted.

I just remember how surreal it was and yet familiar at the same time. The way Shelly would scrunch her voice just so, pretending she was already bored with the activity at hand; the way I would emulate her exact pitch as if monkeying her words would somehow make me as refined as her. Even the red tank top and yellow shirts I wore in the dream were the exact pair I used to wear all the time.

But what I remember the most was how comfortable the scene felt, as if it were some kind of play we had rehearsed for months and now were finally being able to perform. I remember how my words felt crisp in my mouth. I remember how straightened my room looked. I remember smelling the hint of jasmine floating through my balcony window, every so often mixing with the orange scent that was coming off my body, a scent that I often wore when I was at that age.

Most importantly, Shelly was still my cousin and not some long lost relative of my own. We were talking like we were still family. She still loved me and I didn't have to pretend so diligently that it didn't matter at all what she thought of me. We were just two nightingales singing the night hours away, chirping for some food, but mostly chirping at one another in playful reverie. Every smile we wore was genuine, heartfelt even. It was like a scene straight out of my memory, but it also felt so new as if it was happening for the first time.

When I finally woke up I almost had the urge to call Shelly right then and there. Then I thought better of it. The dream had already made me so happy. Why should I ruin my image of her with the dull reality of what has become of the two of us. That's the good thing about dreams and Tuesdays; you don't have to let the real world back in until you're damn good and ready, you know?

Breanne