I dreamt I was lying on the White House lawn as part of the Tourists Tan for America war fundraiser. I shared an unremarkable patch of lawn in a forgotten corner of the grounds with about thirty other people but had the coveted corner spot.
A woman I knew in college approached me. We had parted on less than ideal terms, so I had a small moment of "what do I do" panic. To my surprise she picked up as if we'd never stopped talking. Or at least, as if she never had. She danced a hula around the recumbent bodies on her frequent trips back and forth to the fountain to refill her giant water-spritzing bottle. She spritzed as she sat across from me getting reacquainted, spritzed the air and herself as she traveled, and evangelized. "You know," she yelled from a five-yard distance during one refilling expedition, never breaking the conversation, "spritzing keeps your skin years younger. It's been clinically proven."
Her mom and daughter were on their way, she told me, and we needed to save space for them. She indicated a spot between her towel and mine and then got up to refill her spritzer yet again. I was immediately uncomfortable. On this lawn, with space at a premium, she was asking me to reserve a significant chunk of the choicest real estate without a habeus. It was going to be tough and I hated conflict. As if reading my mind, Kelly Ripa and an equally TV-ready but unfamous brunette began inching into the space my newly reinstated friend had vacated.
"Take the corner," I offered, moving into the space my friend's mom theoretically would inhabit. At least then we wouldn't be separated. Kelly's eyes shone her thanks. A man at my feet shot me a look of utter shock and respect.
"Chivalrous," he said. I smiled.
