In My Dreams

I was telling the Canuck about a dream I had the other night. The details are sketchy, but the main, um, thrust of the story is that I awoke to find that Justin Timberlake had crawled into bed with me, wanting to, you know, bring sexy back to my droopy postpartum body. Through circumstances I can’t recall, somehow my husband was in the next room, probably playing Yahztee with Cameron Diaz, oblivious to the fact that I had an *n Syncer between the sheets.

Anyway, after a lot of hemming and hawing, and perhaps a little exploratory making out, I piously proclaimed that I just cared too much about my family to risk their happiness for a little boy-band nookie. JT begged and beat-boxed and even did a little persuasive dance number, but I didn’t cave. I knew that was a line I would regret crossing.

“But I really, really wanted to,” I sheepishly admitted to the Canuck, which surprised me because in real life I’ve never been tempted to cheat. (In real life I’ve also never met Justin Timberlake) “And the worst part is that I’m not entirely sure I wouldn’t have dream-cheated on you if you hadn’t been in the next room. Man, I suck. I’m sorry.”

He started laughing.

“What?”

“Well, now I feel really awful about boning Nicole Kidman in my dream last night.”