I’m sure I’m not the only one who’s experienced this, but I have random dreams involving celebrities. Being a hetero female, it’s probably also not surprising that the majority of the celebrities that appear in my dreams are male. From dreaming I’m going to Niagara Falls with Harrison Ford to thinking I’m somehow in Jurassic Park with Sam Neill, I have no idea what triggers it all. So last night I had another celebrity dream, hooray!
This time it was Hugh Jackman. Don’t ask me why.
It was dark out but there was artificial lighting around, like downtown at night. I was in an above-ground plaza with lots of other women who were all waiting. Thinking about it more, I’m not sure if we were all standing or sitting in deck chairs. But there was a stairway in front of us with a metal railing, somewhere in the distance. Suddenly, I think there was a spotlight, and then that’s when Hugh Jackman appeared. He was standing on top of the railing. He then did a Wolverine-like move and then slid (or jumped) down to the bottom of the railing on his feet.
All these women (including me, I suppose) then perked up and waited for him – to choose one of them, obviously in some sort of romantic sense. Somewhat like a sultan in a harem. And of course, considering it’s my dream, he ended up choosing me. There was no sex involved, but he knelt down in front of me and told me how beautiful I was, even though I didn’t believe him. He kept on smiling and stroking my face and my hair, telling me how he couldn’t believe how beautiful – how perfect – I was, and kept on kneeling (supplicating?) in front of me.
I was distinctly aware of how much makeup I was wearing, and how fake it felt – the eyeliner smudging, the foundation blotting, makeup getting all over fingers. And yet he still insisted on how beautiful I was, and I just focused on his smile, and his eyes, and his hairline.
What’s really sad is that my stomach still melts when I think of this image; the kneeling, the smile, the self-doubt, the sense of unconditional and absolute devotion. My stomach melts into love, that is the only way to describe it. The even sadder thing is that this feeling of fake love has been conjured entirely by the nocturnal sonatas of my own brain. Why is it that the melting feeling is so much harder to conjure when Rob is around, when he’s in-reach and when I’m intellectually aware that he cares in a way deeper than almost anyone else?