so, in last night's
so but back to the dream. i'm wearing some really old hiking boots i used to wear when i lived in Arizona (i recently donated them), and on top, i have some kind of brown wintery jacket. on the very top, said Santa hat. it's not a good look. not a good look at all. and, as you might imagine, i was the only one dressed in The Outfit. and i didn't get the sense that they had played a joke on me, so it was extra disorienting and weird for me, not to mention just plain humiliating (i've never been a big fan of showing leg; i've always been pretty ashamed of my legs, despite my lovely Grandmother's proclamation that i had "good sturdy legs" -- God love Grandma). . . . and then. i also seemed to be the only one who was having difficulty navigating the mountainside. it seemed to be a slippery, rocky surface, like one i remember from long ago, and i was falling on my side as i struggled to approach my patron (my person-in-line). after i did my horrifying deed (the kiss, the twirl), i scrambled up the mountain and was heading across the road, back to the office. there, for some reason, was a frat house just off to the left, a big frat party having its moment. clearly, i did not want to spend any time being harrassed by frat boys, so i set off with greater determination for said office, . . . and then . . . it faded . . . and, mercifully, i woke. i see several different actually-lived narrative moments converging in this dream. the blue speedo (the boatwreck), my longtime loathing of the thighs, my actual hiking boots, my actual Santa hat (yes. i have one), the slippery rocks like the ones i used to fear when i went fishing w/ my Dad as a child (and the slippery rocks that we used to slide on in North Carolina, the ones upon which my sister Carrie slid, and, after an ill-advised attempt to sneak past the fallen-over tree trunk -- the one we used to grab on to in order to stop ourselves -- falling down the post tree-trunk 200 foot waterfall, nearly to her death. she survived, but it was gruesome; and i did have to run frantically up the mountain, scraping against sharp weeds and slipping in the mud to get to the gas station to call for help) . . . so much more. the weird shift is that my dreams are almost *never* about my actual life as far as i can tell. the scenes i create are almost wholly imaginary. places i've never seen. clothes i've never worn. people and creatures and things i've never encountered. a parallel universe that doesn't *actually* exist. my husband has *real* dreams about us all the time, and i often feel so guilty that i don't dream about us. and i feel angry about it, given that i'm seriously romantic. maybe something is shifting, something that will allow me to dream *real* dreams. maybe they will help me. i don't know.