It has been many months since I have posted. I was spending too much time surfing LiveJournal, and not getting to more important responsibilities, so I quit cold turkey. If I haven't replied to your posts in months, that is why. I haven't seen them.
But I was emailing someone about a recent dream I had that I had found fascinating, and I remembered that lrc said the dream was worthy of a post on LiveJournal. I hope that others are as amused by it as we were.
I was dead. The afterworld was entirely populated by women, no men in sight, and we were all clothes crazy. Understand, none of us dead women looked like corpses, we looked like slender, attractive women "of a certain age," as the French say--forties or fifties. We spent all our time going into clothing stores and examining cuts and styles and colors and fabrics, sometimes alone, and sometimes in chattering groups.
If we liked the way something looked on us, we didn't have to pay for it, we just took the soul of the outfit, and left the material outfit behind.
There was one hitch, though. Sometimes a particularly beautiful living woman went into the store and tried on an outfit we had taken the soul of. If it suited her, the dead woman who owned the soul of that item of clothing would suddenly be yanked from whatever she was doing, and would appear in the store where the living woman was trying on the outfit. The soul of the outfit would waft through the air back into the material outfit, and the beautiful living woman turning and striding in front of the mirror would suddenly be luminous in her beauty.
The dead woman would stand there in her slip, (fortunately, we dead women liked buying pretty underthings too, so the slip was always attractive in itself) looking on in dismay as a beautiful younger living woman walked away with one of her favorite outfits.
I particularly remember watching one of my dead friends, a slender, graceful, blond, German woman with delicate features who looked to be in her late forties. She suddenly appeared in a department store, stripped to her lovely peach silk vintage slip, as her dress's soul flitted onto the body of a plump dark Middle-Eastern-looking living woman in her early 20s.
The expression of disbelief on the face of the blond delicate-featured older woman when her dress's soul chose a young woman so unlike herself still lingers in my memory. I especially remember the sparkle in the young woman's eyes, and the way she turned and smiled and flounced in the mirror while her mother and sisters nodded approvingly. Also still vivid in my memory is the way the dead German lady's expression changed from disbelief to surprise, admiration, and regretful acceptance that the soul of her favorite dress had found its rightful owner. Defeated, she walked from the store in her pretty peach slip, not even stopping to see if any other clothes in the store caught her fancy.
Getting older is a bitch. Still, I may be of a certain age, and not as slim as I used to be, but at least I am still alive...