Morbid

It's clear that moving companies are doing a brisk business in our little corner of the Rust Belt, especially since the closing of yet another factory this year. One moving company rep was particularly cheerful in giving us an estimate. "He's like an undertaker in a time of plague," Adam observed.

Are we death obsessed? Later that evening, Adam and I were lying flat on our yoga mats, in the final shivasana ("corpse") pose. We had a new teacher last night and so we were surprised when, after instructing us to stretch out and close our eyes, she began moving quietly from student to student. From the corner of one eye, I saw that she had a glass bottle in one hand and a hankerchief in the other.

It turns out that this most generous of yoga teachers was administering quick shoulder and neck massages, after applying to each of us a delicious, citrus-scented oil.

Adam said afterwards, "When I heard her approach, I looked over to make sure that she wasn't going to chloroform you."

"Adam!" I exclaimed, with horrified tone. But then I had to laugh, because I'd had exactly the same sick thought.

Just a few questions

• Why does my husband want to attend his ex-girlfriend's wedding?
• Doesn't it matter that she cheated on him in graduate school?
• Shouldn't it matter that she was (in his presence) as cruel as possible to me?
• Is it "unforgiving" of me to think that we might have left her in our past?
• Am I "suspicious" to be hurt by the fact of their renewed email correpondence?
• Does it matter that she's now a tenure-track professor in my husband's field?
• When my husband tells me that he needs to support this woman because she has "commitment issues" on account of her parents' 1986 divorce, am I a bitch for feeling zero sympathy?

Inner bitch does the math: "Been divorced" trumps "your parents' 20-year-old divorce." (Give me a f-ing break.) You made my husband cry, which means I don't have to be friends with you. Meanwhile, does the fiancé know that you're working out those "commitment issues" by calling up old boyfriends?

P.S. to husband: The nicest thing I can say about this is that you are as noble as you are insensitive.

Closing

Tomorrow, our sweet little house will belong to someone else. And, much as I like the new people, I am making myself scarce for the a.m. walk-through.

It feels like we're losing something more personal than property. I'm surprised by the envy I feel for these new people. Not just for taking the house, no. But for being on the verge of the life (and long residence) that was supposed to be Adam's and mine.

This is the second house for which I dared to have big, sentimental dreams. And it's the second house to bear witness to a far different narrative than the one I'd imagined would unfold in its rooms.

I know. It's just a house. Time to trade one dream for another. Our next home will be an apartment. This time, I'm not writing any scripts.

[Up next: The Script]

Clues

I dreamed I was eating lunch with my friend Lauren. When I looked at her, I could see the blood pouring out of my own ear.

I dreamed I borrowed my husband’s penis. I tried it on in the tub and was amused to watch it work. I washed it out, and gave it back to him.

I dreamed I was having a baby. I had mixed feelings about the baby, but, too late, I was already in labor. The baby came sliding toward me down a gushing, metal pipe. I dove forward and caught him – amazing catch – but he was only a fake baby, a rubber doll.

I dreamed I was looking for an apartment. It had no stairs yet, so I had to hoist myself to the second floor. As I dangled in midair, seven cockroaches marched, single-file, across my back.

This is not the place, I said.