I know I’m not supposed to steal someone else’s title, especially when it’s an actual blockbuster movie with George Clooney. But I don’t really care, since I don’t know George Clooney on a personal basis (otherwise, I so wouldn’t be here blogging, trust me) nor anyone famous, for that matter.
Which is probably why I have the exact same dream the night before I fly somewhere. The night before that, i.e. two days before the trip, I usually have terrifying nightmares involving planes crashes, I toss and turn in my bed, I totally freak out and when I wake up, all I want to do is call the whole thing off. For whatever reason, it all goes away after that. So here comes the night with the cool dream.
It always happens that way: I get up in the morning and realize my flight takes off in about two hours. I get up quickly and run through long white corridors, pulling off my PJs as I run. This is one of the many proofs I’m dreaming : I never run in my apartment because then I would probably hurt myself or walk on toys or on one of my children and I don’t have long corridors. I shower, put my jeans on, a white T-shirt, high heels, grab my passport and my Vuitton travel bag and hail a cab. Again, it is a dream, people. I don’t fly in high heels, otherwise my feet will not get in those shoes when I land and since I’m not Madonna, I cannot walk barefoot or I’ll just look plain stupid and I don’t have a Vuitton travel bag. Anyway. I find a cab, the driver doesn’t talk to me, I get to Charles de Gaulle airport in no time, run like a madwoman, vaguely wave my passport at the custom officer who smiles back – you know what, maybe I AM Madonna, in the dream. Or Julia Roberts. Yes, Julia Roberts is better, she’s all smiles and pretty, whereas Madonna is all muscles and looks weird. I keep on running, I’m in excellent shape, you see, and get in the plane right before they close the doors. I’m not even panting nor breathing hard, my hair hasn’t moved an inch, and let’s remember I have my night hair, which normally make me look like a whiter and older Jackson Five, but it’s a DREAM, people.
I find my seat, say “hello” to my neighbour and it’s someone very famous, very gorgeous, and very male. I wouldn’t fuss about it so much if it was Madonna. I mean, I’d be really glad to sit next to her, but it’s really unlikely, isn’t it? So, for the past year or so, it’s been Alexander Skarsgard (yes, again, please don’t judge me) or Daniel Craig. Or George Clooney. Brad Pitt stopped coming when he started adopting all these children. Not that dads aren’t sexy, but he’s got “I belong to Angelina and I’m slightly scared of her” all around his face, so that makes him less interesting to me.
I don’t speak to Alex/George/Daniel because I think it’s rude and I don’t drool either, whereas in real life I’d probably either catatonic (hence the drooling) or talking really fast in German, and I don’t speak German. I just pick up a very smart book on quantum physics and read it, and actually understand it. Then Alex/George/Daniel looks at me and I can see in his eyes that he’s totally in love. He takes my book, gently, puts it slowly between our seats – there’s plenty of room, I’m flying 1st class – and he holds my chin and…
And then I’m pretty sure my sisters will put some sort of PG so I’ll stop here. Next time I’ll fly, it’ll be to go see Sandrine, her hubby and the munchkins, and I’ll have my own hubby and munchkins with me. It will be all about drawing, eating candy, explaining how come we can fly, being stared at by other parents and adults because I clearly don’t know the actual answer and tell my children it’s because Dumbo’s riding the plane, and wishing I had brought that stupid charger for the DVD player. I can’t wait, though, it’ll be fun. And for me, the trip always starts 24hrs before… ;)