No, I dreamed of something slightly less drunk than "Real World" and a bit more intelligible than "The Bachelorette," minus anything as droopy as "National Geographic" and as over-oranged and hyper-threaded as "Jersey Shore." Maybe something produced by the people who casted "Oceans Eleven" or strategically make all those close-to-40-year-old celebs' booties look so oomphed.
But the other night, in the haze of water just a tad too hot, I inhaled the lavender emanating from the candle on the window sill, opened my eyes and peered over the bubbles to see those six fully armored and ab-ed men awaiting me on the edge of my tub.
There they are, quite the fantasy. Peek a bit closer. Really get in there and study their outlined obliques and giant guns ready to blast.
That's right. Above the bubbles, I was baring it all for a crew of Clone Troopers and strange Droid thingies.
Well, at least it wasn't crowded with all of us in there. No one passed out. There were no awkward next-morning-in the X-Wing moments. And none of it was captured on national TV.