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May 11, 2007
Out of Breath
Every night for the last week, I've had the same recurring dream.
I'm in an airport, racing through the hallways with the speed of a marathon runner. I've got to find Mr. Pilot and tell him something of vital importance. I might die if I don't find him, and I spend a good chunk of time dashing back and forth between gates, anxiously scanning the crowds, and pushing people out of the way. Eventually I find him, and when I run up to him I'm so exhausted that I have to bend over for a second to catch my breath. When I stand up, I realize that he is on a moving walkway, slowly receding from view. I can't see his face, and there is a moment of agonizing desperation as I realize he is gone forever and I will never get to whisper that crucial information into his ear.
I have this dream maybe a dozen times a night, and wake up feeling frantic and woeful each time--making my mornings not exactly the most delightful part of my day.
I tell you this, dear reader, not so that you will feel bad for me, or so that you will suggest I put in some more time at the gym to get in better shape for my subconscious moments (because, seriously, I could NOT spend any more time at the gym these days), but to share with you the following twist, which happened this morning just as the sun was rising and I was dozing off after a night of running through the airport:
Lo and behold, I have the dream again, but this time I am 9 months pregnant. I move as slow as a turtle through the imaginary airport hallways, fighting to get my round belly past the crowds and cognizant that I will never find Mr. Pilot at my current speed. It's like moving through jello, and I feel suffocated and smothered and desperate and on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
But this time, instead of the traditional ending where I finally find Mr. Pilot at the moving walkway, this time I burst out of my sleep to find that I'm laying in bed, with my arms and legs tangled in the blankets, and one of the cats lolling squarely on my stomach. Thank god I don't need a psychologist to explain *that* one.
I suppose that still doesn't explain the other strange variation I had a couple of nights ago, where instead of finding Mr. Pilot I was suddenly making out with a 7' tall batik-swathed African woman. Feel free to analyze that one, dear reader, since I'm out of self-reflection minutes for the day.
