The concept of “total submersion” involves sharing everything with your spouse. For instance, I enjoy telling my wife about fantasies. Never the sex ones; they would be stupid to disclose, along with any secret stuff that could get you into trouble or diminish your role as Mr. Infallible.
One side note about myself. I possess the ability to hallucinate any place, any time, in the middle of the day, during a strategic planning meeting at work or while shopping on Saturday for some drywall (I’ve never really purchased any drywall, because I don’t know what it’s used for, but I think there’s some hidden in my house).
My most common daydream puts me, now Elvis, in the driver’s seat of a 1963 silver blue Corvette Stingray, top down, cruising along a winding ocean shore highway, with a young, sizzling Ann Margret resting her Hollywood tush on the passenger side Corinthian leather seats. The sun glistens off my oily forehead and a sea breeze rustles my hair, but not enough to necessitate a re-comb. While my hands grip the Le Mans’ racing style steering wheel, I spontaneously break into song, belting out the lyrics and notes to Girl Happy, accompanied by a musical band playing from somewhere out of the scene. A clan of bikini babes and muscle men twist and shout on the beach as I drive past their well-choreographed picnic party. I ever so faintly smell Ms. Margret’s Chanel Number 5. The swirling wind prevents me from experiencing a more robust whiff of her alluring scent. The ocean’s aroma, mixed with fragrances of kelp and yellow-fin tuna, temporarily distracts me. But I really don’t mind, because the sea itself is a vixen, with her undulating tides, rhythmic motions and and her caressing waves.
I speed up my song's tempo, as three other women materialize out of thin air, two in the Vette's back seat and one on the hood, slightly obstructing my driving view. My voice gets louder as I transition to Teddy Bear. Then the bombshell on the hood shifts her hips and blocks the road's yellow center line. So I pull over to the first wayside where another psychedelic shindig is in full swing. A couple of squared-chinned pretty boys approach Ms. Margret and flirt with her while she's plainly in my sight. I swiftly eliminate their threat with some very efficient and spectacular fistacuffs. I pause and reflect after the physical encounter. As Mr. Swivel Hips, I still have a lot of shake and bake left in my singing and acting career. That means plenty of dames and leading ladies to consider. And while I've enjoyed my time with Ms. Margret during this daydream, I really shouldn't limit myself while so many other delusions germinate inside.
So I vault over the closed driver's side door and back into my Vette; the rubber burns as I leave the party and Ms. Margret behind. I serenade myself with a chorus of Love Me Tender while checking myself out in the rearview mirror. But my self-indulgent moment is rudely interrupted by someone whispering numbers and statistics in my right ear. Just then, my company’s chief financial officer flashes PowerPoint slides on the boardroom screen and pledges to cut expenses next year to improve our bond rating. My fantasy bursts. I return to reality. As hard as I try, Ms. Margret and my car full of friends do not return. Damn the CFO! Damn reality!
If your daydreams are as voracious as mine, I highly recommend that you refrain from sharing the level of detail associated with my hallucination above. Wives enjoy husbands committed to total submersion, except when the sharing describes a sexy celebrity in a speeding sports car. Try sharing a hallucination about you personally diverting the path of a gigantic asteroid hurtling toward earth. Or a fantasy about building a gigantic birdhouse to attract pterodactyls to your backyard. Much safer.
(next post: finishing “Total Submersion” with the Forest Ranger Fantasy)