Dreams and Ford Escorts

On Thursday I met someone just like me.

I saw her walk across the car park and I knew she was like me. She had that same look like I feel like I have. Exhausted, unsure, full of emotion.

Or maybe that's just what I thought I saw.

We listened about our partner's new lives, as I've done over and over, but this time, this time there were others. It wasn't about him, it was about them. It was about this new group, not just the individual.

And it was real.

There was another girl there, she was someone's fiancee, and I thought for a moment oh that must be awful. But then I felt defensive as if in some way that made her loss, her loneliness, worse, because she had a ring, because she had a finger encased in commitment.

But I don't have to prove anything. Not to her, not to anyone. But perhaps to myself, to justify the way I am feeling.

I'm not sure.

Sometimes I feel it expels from my pores, battling for exit alongide my dominating perspiration glands.

At work I look tired, exhausted, drained. My concentration, my commitment to anything other than my fractious emotions and thoughts has rapidly evaporated, and I am relying on an unstable backup generator that has been left, suddenly and unhappily, to take care of essential maintenance and running.

I asked the first girl, once the PowerPoint had ended and I had a near-drained gin and tonic in my hands, how she was coping.

She said 'just'.

I feel like I am a precarious game of Entropy. There are occasions, talking, when everything is fine, when I have been lacing neatly each new piece of information into the towering composition. Then just one, just a heartbeat of words, just a throw away phrase, just a comment, and it slices through my structure, sends everything off balance.

Those moments I remain silent, or look away, or smile. Whatever I can do.

In my combat class on Friday, punching out violently aggression, tension and aiming it towards several disagreeable clients, a tight knotted fist of thought hit me, winded me. I had to catch my breath.

'I can't cope'.

That thought. That creeps up on me, that attacks my windpipe, that intertwines itself within the problematic interior of my stomach, making my digestion oh so much worse than it previously was (this rise in enzymic production issues only usually reserved for bouts of regular illness, of which I have experience of a wide variety of nestled happily within every crevice of unhappy body, and 'that time of the month', which makes it even more difficult to negotiate what my body craves: small yet highly offensive and extremely volatile pieces of chocolate).

I have been reduced to simple foods. My digestive enzymes can just about successfully deal with my marmite and cucumber sandwich. Anything more taxing, and they throw a revolt, which usually involves a large number of them striking at highly inappropriate times, say at an important dinner for my boyfriend with his new colleagues, for example (not that I'm bitter but lets just say we'll be having words once he's gone).

So, rather than supporting my mind, rather than seeking comfort in small solaces of tasty treats, my body has chosen to unite with my brain in an unlikely scenario and they're both not doing me any favours.

He will be back, and things will return to normal. Not this normal, but then this isn't normal. A new normal. I imagine: a home, a car, a cocker spaniel. And maybe even a cheese toasty. You never know, you have to dream.

When I was younger I used to imagine a grand house, with a pool, with a beautiful kitchen, tastefully integrated stainless steel with country kitchen bliss (although from that worrying description it is clear to ascertain that I am not the interior decorator of the family and I am slightly concerned from my ill conceived visualisation that the house will look less like a feature from Ideal Home magazine and more like the backdrop to some miserable family in Take a Break).

Now, all I hope for, all I really want, out of everything in a home of my own, is a driveway.

I'd dream of a garage, but I need to be realistic on this one.

The reason being: I've lived in London where parallel parking is the norm. And frankly, it scares me.

I am a Cornish girl and therefore can reverse better than I can drive (you don't argue with a tractor) and where the need to parallel park is non-existent.

Plus my horrific attempt at parking was even demonstrated in my second (and final) driving test, when, on reversing around a corner, I managed to mount the curb spectacularly.

To my surprise, the driving examiner, instead of failing me for my clearly reckless display of terrible parking, said 'I think you should try that again'. I later learnt that the examiner 'liked women' and, on passing me, he told me that I had 'driven appaulingly but was going to pass me anyway'.

Nice.

But, whilst other drivers would have quickly become adept at their parking, I stayed firmly and comfortably in the arena of crap. And I will reguarly make my happless passengers walk much further than they would comfortably like because I have driven passed several non-negotiable parking spaces (that, realistically, you could have parked a truck in, but lets not dwell on the finer points).

So, while my boyfriend is away, I will be, if I can exceed merely scraping a living from some talent other than exploiting JavascriptJoy or CSSStress, I will be furrowing away my savings for a deposit on the grandeur I dream of.

I will, realistically, probably not even manage to scrape enough cash to put down a healthy deposit on an aging mushroom and beige coloured caravan.

But the thought of renting again sends my mind into spasms of fear and aggression and results in an unsightly and uncomfortable display of volatile vocal ramblings to whoever is unlucky enough to be the recipient of my rant.

So what of my dream?

My boyfriend once told me there's no point dreaming of a Ford Escort when you can dream of a TVR.

This may be true, but in my eyes, a TVR is noisy, uncomfortable and you can't take it out in the wet whilst an Escort represents reliability and has room enough for your shopping in the boot.

My scaled down, minature dreams allow me to achieve realistic goals so I am not constantly met with an array of disappointment. I'd settle even for a desginated parking space at a push.

I still would, someday, love a heated, indoor swimming pool (and a minion to clean it) but I guess little baby steps means I will achieve something along the way.

All rather safe isn't it? Why do you think I have cushioned my transition from WebStress to penniless writer with the undercurrent of freelance web design? Why do you think, when I took the tentative steps from being fully employed to freelancing last year that I carefully lined up work, ensuring that I was financially stable but also that I was consistently unable to attempt any of the multimedia experimentation that I had envisaged freelancing would allow.

And why do you think my boyfriend, who has taken massive risks, who has endured interviews and tests and examinations, who has offered everything he has, who is giving his all, is just about to begin achieving his dream?

I am not a risk taker. But maybe I should be.