A week later I am having drinks with Ainsley (Post 166, 164, 140, 135, and 111), and Kate and Wynn, from the Killington ski trip (Post 161, 160, 159, and 158). “I’m being haunted,” I say, sip my wine and retell my Virat dream with graphic detail. When I finish Kate is speechless and Ainsley nods, processing the story. Wynn however says, “You are so strange.” Perhaps. But my dreams are like that. Vivid. Or else there are huge holes in them and I wake up in a panic.
“I had another dream once; it involved this awful former friend whose life revolved around having five boys interested in her at all times. Looking back I knew she was a horrible, shallow person. But I didn’t think to break-up with friends like I did with boyfriends. Until one night I dreamt I was house-sitting for her and decided to smoke cigarettes while vacuuming. When I went to take out the trash and it wouldn't stop flowing and soon the whole apartment was filled with stinking garbage and cigarettes. And I started freaking out because she was returning at any moment. Then there’s a knock on the door and I peer out the peephole. It’s a girl I haven't seen before with two side ponytails, wearing purple shorts. She knocks again, I don’t answer and finally the girl leaves.” Wynn makes a face, “That dream is stranger than the other one.” “What happens next with the girl?” Ainsley asks and ignores Wynn. “I wake up sweating and it ends,” I reply.
“How did you become friends with someone so rank?” Ainsley asks. “I don’t know,” I reply. I doubt Durga would tolerate a vain and unstable friend obsessed with boys, who wore make-up two shades too light and looked like the desi Michael Jackson. So why did I continue to spend time with someone who lacked any knowledge of current events, wrote emails riddled with grammatical errors and drove me to get caller id. Am I too Minnesota Nice and not enough Manhattan Ice? Or do I simply lack self-esteem in all areas of my life?
"Please tell me you are no longer friends with her,” Kate asks. “No,” I reply quickly and swiftly. “She tried to friend me on Facebook and I ignored her. She sent emails and I never wrote back. And when she invited me to her wedding and I didn’t RSVP because I worried she’d take that as communication.” Ainsley stares at me for a long moment and says, “If the apartment dream is your subconscious telling you to stopping being friends with someone. Your Thai dinner date dream is deeper than men.” I slowly release air from lungs and think Ainsley is correct. But I am scared to cut myself open and discover my psyche. Three and a half decades of repression, self-preservation, loss and disappointment is not going to be pretty once under the mighty lens of honesty, even if it leads to self-discovery.
“I think everything would fine if you’d just find a fuck-buddy,” Wynn suggests. Has this woman met me? If so, I doubt she would suggest, to a self-proclaimed prude, that the solution to her life is to find a man who uses her for sex. “No thanks,” I reply. Wynn does not relent, “We need a night of reckless abandon where we wildly kiss inappropriate men.” Wynn then points at me and says, “Desi Girl, you better smile and be nice if you want them to buy drinks.” “I can buy my own drinks. Besides I don’t think it’s nice to use men,” I reply. “Do you live under a rock?” Wynn demands. “If that rock is Washington Heights, then yes, I live under a rock,” I reply. Wynn groans and shakes her head, “Men like to be treated like shit…and I know just the place to take you.”