Dream a Little Dream

Life is harder for dreamers.

I don't mean "dreamers" as deified by modern culture, those people who sacrifice everything to realize their "dreams." I'm too pragmatic, and probably too pessimistic, to be one of those people. I figure, hey, if I can't write a great bestselling novel because -- as I've lately realized -- I can't actually write fiction, it doesn't invalidate who I am. Maybe I'll never write a book at all, and probably I can live with that regret. My sort drives "dreamers" crazy.

No, I'm talking about people who dream, literally. We go to bed every night expecting busy, technicolor adventures. We have learned, over the years, to exercise some control over our dreams, so we can run, fly, and even rewind if we don't like the direction things are going. While it makes nighttime more fun, it makes daytime a little more difficult.

It's the reality vs. surreality that's the problem. I'm always having to figure out if Darren really told me something, or if I just dreamed he did. I recently went through half a day with a satisfied feeling that I'd resolved a problem with someone, only to realize about noon that I hadn't actually talked to the person; instead, I'd settled everything in my dream the night before. As far as that goes, I've resolved my conflicts with my stepfather many more times than I actually attempted to do during his lifetime. It doesn't seem fair that something as involuntary as dreaming can set my emotional tone for the morning, but unfortunately that's the case.

This morning I woke up very grouchy indeed. The kids irritated me, the fact that we were nearly out of milk irritated me, and then I checked my usual round of blogs and some of the comments irritated me. So when Darren called for his morning check-in, I was a joy to talk to. After a few moments of complaining, I suddenly realized why the blog-comment especially put me on edge: just before I'd woken up, I dreamed that some officious new supervisor had dismissed a blog-conversation between me and Amy K. by saying we were off-topic and wasting time. When I explained it to Darren, he laughed.

"I knew you were having a bad dream." Twice he tried to cuddle with me. The first time I turned over in a huff, and the other time I pushed him away. Well, no wonder. I was being reprimanded, and directly after that I rode in an elevator whose doors didn't close and which didn't stop at my floor. Who wants to cuddle at a time like that?

I'm glad to say that after I figured out the source of my pique, I cheered up considerably. The rest of the day went well. The weather was nice, the children could play outside, and Darren said he was taking off tomorrow so I could spend the day shopping and drinking Coffee Toffees.

Or did I just dream that?

-- SJ