The Women of Our Dreams

You know that woman you see on the back of your eyelids as you prepare to go to sleep? Well I suppose if you are a heterosexual female or a homosexual male, you wouldn't, but otherwise? She is the blank and nebulous face in your fantasies when they aren't about anyone in particular. It is her you long to hold tight against you in the lonely nights between relationships and facinations. She is the mythical ideal by which all partners will be subconciously judged. Well, she has to be mythical. Surely, the world is not cruel enough to let her exist?

Her name was Susan. She was in my breakout group at a "leadership" conference I attended. Youth "leadership" conferences are pretty much band camp or football camp for political science nerds. I survived two of these conferences in my youth: one at the state level in Springfield, Illinois and one at the national level in Washington D.C. The one in Springfield was during my freshman year of high school, and was remarkable only because I discovered just how amazingly comfortable the chairs in the General Assembly are. I was far too uptight to get much else out of it. D.C. was two years later, and I was less uptight by then. Still too uptight to get anything out of the trip on my own, though.

I don't remember her in the breakout group. It's actually a reoccuring theme in my life. Apparently the neurotransmitters and hormones released when I fall for someone completely wipes all occurances of her from my memory proir to the moment it happens. I always found this a bit odd.

The first time it occured, the woman in question was another girl I shall call Maeve for the purposes of this piece, so that I can maintain plausable deniability in the unlikely event that she or others who know her happen to read this. I was able to fake my way through conversations with Maeve well enough to keep the truth from coming out for a couple of years. Not that it was particularly difficult to avoid flubbing the details with that whole tongue-tied babbling thing that comes with the crushes of youth going on. I doubt I said more than a handful of coherent words in any conversation I had with her. She did eventually find out though, to which she replied, "Ah, well, I didn't have breasts then; I do now." At the time I objected strenuously to this explanation, but her assessment was, of course, correct. I may be a nice guy, but I'm still a guy. Biology will out.

But, I have digressed from my story. Within the breakout groups we would hold mock public debates on various social issues. We'd each be assigned a role and given briefing materials the night before. Sometimes we were the various members of the executive branch. Other times we were members of the legislative branch.

Now, to this day, there is little in life I enjoy more than a policy debate. Yes, that's sick and twisted, I know. I can't explain it, other than there is some primal center of my being that is tapped into when discussing the nuiances of Middle East policy or gun safety locks. I just feel more energetic, more alive when speaking these issues. I'm not sure I said much more than ten words before the first of these discussions, and I not sure I actually ever quit speaking during them.

On the third day an ice cream social was held. I opted to skip it as I'm not terribly fond of standing in the back of the room watching everyone else have fun. Besides, I had briefings to go over for the next day. I'm not actually certain why I decided to leave my room. I think it was to get a soda from downstairs. I have absolutely no idea why I decided to take the stairs down instead of the elevator, but I did. And there she was, sitting on the stairs with guy by the name of Max, who was in my breakout group too.

I shuffled past them in the stair well, my lowered head dipping briefly in greetings as I attempted to avoid bothering them too much. "Are you OK?" She asked as I had just about effected my escape.

"Me? Yeah...." I stood there drooping at the very edge of conversational distance. Ready to make a socially acceptable exit if my answer were allowed to fly. It wasn't.

"You look kind of down. You sure everything is OK?" There was a vestage of the lost Southern aristocracy in her voice. It was educated, considerate, and soothingly concerned...for me. The heart of man is easily won. Especially the heart of a lonely young man. I hadn't even noticed the slump of my shoulders until they straightened to her words. I believe I made a noncommital sound. She replied, "You just looked like you were having fun as President in the last discussion. And, now, well, you don't. Here, come, sit with us for a while." Even if I had had something else to do that evening, it would have been impossible for me to have done anything but sit. It was a deep biological imperative.

The thing I most remember about her is her hair: strands of amber, long enough to just reach past her shoulders. It was familiar to me as we talked and laughed and dropped coins down the hotel stairwell. It wasn't until after the chaperones found us and sent us to our rooms, that I figured out why. I closed my eyes to try and force myself to sleep, and there she was. Her hair, glowing slightly in the ruddy darkness, appeared first. Then her eyes, her forehead, her eyebrows, her eyelashes, her nose, her lips...all a perfect portrait painted there the day I decided I didn't care if girls had cooties, there was just something cool about them. She was real, and she was Susan.