These Boots Were Made for Crushing Dreams

My husband likes to call me a dream-crusher. I say I’m a realist.

Of course it’s more fun to be the dreamer; to have big plans that propel you through the muck of daily life. But I get uncomfortable with the nebulous nature of dreams. These aspirations that float so high above our heads. These ambitions perched in the top branches of the tree of life. These ideals that forever swirl and shift like a the pieces of a kaleidoscope, depending on the emotions and experiences of the day.

However, when he throws out that phrase it makes me mad. I, of all people, should not be accused of squeezing the life out what is hopeful, and beautiful, and potentially the key to all happiness. I, myself, am a creative; getting lost in my thoughts, or on the page, or behind the lens of a camera. Or at least, I used to.

In fact, I have dreams, just like everyone else. But I also have a boss, dare I say tyrant, running the show in my mind. This is the realist, and she likes to fold my dreams neatly away in a closet. She feels safest when they are kept under control, folded and stacked, and in their (permanent?) place. Sometimes, a dream or two will get restless, and knock on the door, yelling and threatening to escape. But the realist quiets it down by stacking obstacles against the door for reinforcement. These obstacles vary in size from a pebble to a boulder, but all serve the purpose of leaning against the door to my dreams. They seem never-ending at times, and come with the phrase “I have to” attached to them so that when the realist begins her litany of reminders, it sounds like: I have to go to work, I have to make a certain amount of money, I have to realize that hardly anyone actually “makes it” in this field, I have to keep our home clean and organized, I have to take care of my children and animals (and husband, let’s be real), I have to take care of myself and that includes time-consuming daily exercise and more complex grooming routines as I get older, I have to plan, shop, and prepare meals for my family, and yes, I have to rest.

In comparison, my husband’s dreams are definitely out of the closet. And I knew this very early on when we went out to dinner at one of those restaurants with tables covered in butcher paper and a jar of crayons sitting by the bread basket. Most people will playfully doodle a familiar favorite object or start a game of tic-tac-toe, but my husband began this detailed drawing and even more elaborate explanation of an invention he was dreaming up that was a cross between a motorcycle and a gyrocopter. This was my introduction to my husband’s dreams, where reality often rests quietly in the background. His realist is on vacation, maybe permanently, and his dreams love to play.

And this is where I come in, with my “buts” that wear boots with thickly treaded soles to do all the crushing. The big buts are usually financial with the smaller ones questioning logistics, and time. These buts tend to aggravate and not detour, the dreamstorms in his head. I know I am doing this because my realist told me to and she runs the show. Because someone has to be practical and make sure we can eat, and pay our bills, and retire somewhat comfortably. It’s the safe route, with the boring scenery and the most predictable outcome.

I didn’t write this post to solve a problem, or decide who is right. Do I want to be a dream-crusher? No. Is a dream-crusher necessary in our relationship? My realist would say 100 percent; this is survival, not playtime. But when the term is thrown my way and I reflect on my words, I wonder if I am just envious that his dreams live center stage in his mind, while mine are neatly put away for a time that is growing shorter. Whether I’m the villain, who silently proclaims, “If I can’t have them, no one can.”

And that gets me thinking: If not now, when? If not me, who? Maybe it’s time to overthrow the tyrant and start clearing obstacles.