I’m not much of a Hot Guy With a Guitar girl. Sure, I listened to John Mayer religiously my senior year of high school and felt like Chris Carrabba had read my diary of teenage angst. But I really thought of these guys as my friends—like we’d hang out on the school's baseball bleachers with slushies while they strummed out emotion and I tried to hook them up with my girlfriends. In those years, there was absolutely no throbbing or grinding accompanied by “Screaming Infidelities” or “No Such Thing.”
So when I had what some might describe as a soft porn/superhero fantasy dream last week about Jack Johnson, I woke up confused. And for the last week, I’ve attempted to make sense of this experience.
Let me try to talk it out:
There I am, chilling at some non-descript outdoor café in some non-descript urban sitting with some girlfriends, who must be my dreamy-time girlfriends cause I don’t know these ladies from anywhere else.
And suddenly, Jack Johnson swoops in—literally. I spot him about fifteen feet up in the air, pulling a Superman and descending into this patio area. There are absolutely no gimmicks—no cape, no tights. Just Jack Johnson looking really hot up in the air.
I have to admit, it’s only natural that my subconscious would insert flying here. Dudes who can fly = totally hot.
Let’s take some examples:
Clark Kent, played by Dean Cain, is obscenely hot. I feel naughty just looking at this picture. I spent most of my grade school years wishing I was Teri Hatcher for obvious reasons, many of which are right there underneath that "S."
So like I was saying, I've definitely got this thing for flying men. So it's only natural that Jack Johnson should appear to me, god-like, from on high.
Once he lands nearby my dreamgirls and me, he wastes no time.
“Caitlin,” Flying Jack Johnson says, walking airily toward me, “I want you to join my superhero team."
Sometimes in dreams, our conscious-selves shake our dream-selves in mid-reverie, ‘Duh! This isn’t real! That’s not even possible!’ But this time, my conscious-self sat back and didn’t interrupt, as if to say, ‘Go ahead. Live it up. Join his gang of superheroes. Oh, uh, yeah. I'm pretty sure I’ve heard of them before, so they must be real.’ Even she was totally vibing with what was going on here.
“Oh, I don’t know, Jack,” I respond and busily look around me like I have chores to do. “I’m not sure I can.”
This response isn’t so far-fetched. I’m always clueless or rebuffing guys who make advances at me, regardless of whether or not I’m interested, they can fly, or they're Jack Johnson.
Fortunately, Flying Jack Johnson sees right through my ploy.
“Come on, Caitlin,” he says again. He lowers his chin and glances at me with deep eyes and a puppy-dog look from underneath his dark brows. How does he know I can’t resist this look? How does he know that I love it when men say my name at the end of sentences because it suggests intimacy? Chris Carrabba must have handed off my diary to Jack Johnson! “You know that we can’t do this without you."
What is 'this'? I don’t care. I’m sold.
“Ok, Jack,” I grasp my purse (I'm so practical even in my most impractical dreams), standing up and taking his hand. “If you need me, then you have me.”
Since waking up that morning, my life has been different. No matter that Jack Johnson is married and has a kid who he writes strummy lullabies for. He is hotter than crap, and I can't stop thinking about how hotter than crap he is. And in my dreams, he holds me as he flies.