Someone's Dreams

On Mondays, I race home after work with a specific agenda in mind: to change change out of my stuffy workwear into recess clothes, eat a semi-decent meal and perhaps have a smidgen of conversation with one of my roommates before I race off to my six o’clock class. I don’t have the dough to fork over for a campus parking pass, so each week I park in the visitor lot where I’m charged two dollars if I arrive before 5:45. If I arrive at 5:46, I am charged only one dollar. My professor has a bad habit of starting class at 5:55, so it is crucial that I enter the parking lot, find a space, and get to class within the slim window of 5:46-5:53.
One particualr Monday, I was thinking to myself that I was developing quite the knack for timing all these things, and smushing what could take some people an hour and a half into just a half an hour. I felt pretty good while dressing up my day old baked potato with all the fixin’s (because really, what reason is there to eat a baked potato if not for the fixin's?). Then I looked at the clock. I had a mere three minutes to eat my dinner.
I looked at my baked potato, all hot and steamy and melty with butter and sour cream. I looked at my diet coke, refreshingly fizzy after just popping the can open. I sighed and looked at the clock again. I would have to multi-task. So I did what any single person would do, I decided just to take my potato and my diet coke in the car with me. This meal was not exactly what one would consider a to-go food, but it was delicious and surprisingly easy to manage on the freeway.

I love being alone in my car with the radio at high volume. I am that girl who you make fun of at stoplights as she sings and dances, forgetting that a large portion of the material the makes up her car is glass and that she is really not alone at all. As I neared campus a particularly enjoyable song came on the radio frequency 100.7 FM (the music that makes you feel good). This surprises most people, but I have a deep fondness for pop music and bad hip hop. It’s a passion I can typically only indulge in alone in my automobile. Singing along to a certain Nelly song, through diet coke belches (I don’t know why, but soda from a can makes me burp something fierce) and mouthfuls of mashed potatoes I joyfully crooned the words “It’s getting hot in here, so take of all your clothes.” A surprisingly pungent burp punctuated the end of the song and the most hilarious thought popped into my head.

“I am girl of someone’s dreams.”

I laughed out loud. I couldn’t stop laughing at this absurdity and was still grinning to myself at 5:52 when I walked into my comparative politics class.

I like any honest single woman will admit that I spend a decent portion of my time thinking about the man I’m going to marry. I have a list, it’s true. There are obvious characteristics on that list, and there are secret characteristics on that list that I've never told anyone, never even written down, lest the significance of those qualities be marred by their publication. But I’ve also fully surrendered my life to Christ and I know that God has a PERFECT man, exclusively for me.
Logically, if there is a perfect man out there for me, than I am the perfect woman for some man out there. For some reason, until that day, that thought had never occured to me. And well, it made me feel alot better about myself. I don’t genuinely believe that there is a wonderful godly man daydreaming about a girl who knows all the words to Gangsta’s Paradise and joyfully sings them through a mouthful of day old potatoes. I don’t think that specific characteristic is on any particular gentleman’s list. But perhaps it is, maybe it's only number six or numbers seven on the list ... whoever God has designed to be my other half is going to be a pretty kooky fellow indeed.