Recalibrating Your Dreams

My wife is hanging new curtains. Purchased from… I don’t know what she’s saying. The curtains were procured at a price of… I don’t know what she’s saying because what I hear is ’16 hours of work’, or to play it back again in my head, ‘a week and a half of groceries’.

The curtains match the couch we bought on Craigslist. It’s new-ish and the dog hair’s been vacuumed out. My wife was a boho street queen when we met, a princess with a molly habit. We still have the same dream, sylvan simple house far from neighbors, in the hills. But here in our urbane townhouse there must be Netflix and Hulu and K-cups and an additional dresser to supplement the closet space.

I am stuffing the new shirts she bought me into a trashcan at the curb. My cellphone is 6 years old and is made fun of because it can’t Skype, or receive picture messages. I want to dig a hole in the warm earth and assume the fetal position. I love her painfully and I want our children in the best public schools and I want us to have 30 acres on the outskirts of a little urban center where everyone knows our names and there’s a single coffee shop and nothing is headquartered 1000 miles away. I want art galleries and farmers markets and an unpaved driveway. I want to live in Zanesville or Ashville or Ithaca and we are dirt poor. We don’t have degrees. I dropped out and to finish is another two years and $40,0000000000 in debt. My wife is hanging new curtains and I am never again going to look out the damn window.

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