My name is Kim, and I’m an over-analyzer. Thankfully, a recovering one. Questions bombarded my psyche for years. Why did he say that? Why did she do that? Why am I nervous? Why did I eat that whole bag of cookies? Okay, it didn’t take a brain surgeon to answer that last question: “Because they were there.” Now, being around other over-analyzers drives me crazy; it’s a situation akin to former smokers hating cigarette smoke.
My friend Birdie begins her analysis of a movie as soon as the opening credits start. I try not to make eye contact with her, so I won't see her facial expressions that reveal what she's thinking. I ask her to take a vow of silence every time we watch a film together. On the other hand, she and Flash have a great time watching movies because they analyze in stereo. It's like observing a twisted game show to see which one of them will figure out the plot in four minutes or less.
These days, I try to keep a tight rein on my brain. Except when it comes to dissecting dreams. I’m fascinated by my sleep movies, and love trying to figure out why I dream what I dream. Often, my subconscious is smarter and wiser than my conscious self. Of course, my brilliance is only fully realized at night when I'm asleep, so I can't prove it to anyone. Revelations of what my dreams represent could be life-changing. Or maybe not.
Recently, I told a friend about my Motherhood Failure. It's not my only failure, but it's the one that was on my mind a couple of weeks ago, as cooler weather visited Houston in late October.
“We’ve never taken our son, Cowboy, camping,” I confessed. “We've had our own escapade, just Flash and I, which was a comedy of errors. But poor Cowboy has never camped in a tent.”
When Cowboy was little, Flash's reason for not going was Cowboy's hyperactivity, i.e., our son might try escaping the tent at night.
“I could sleep in front of the zipper,” I told Flash.
But Flash gave me his you’ve-got-to-be-kidding look, and I pictured lions, tigers, and bears in the woods. I imagined Cowboy’s leaping over me to make a quick exit, as I remained asleep in blissful ignorance. We decided to wait until he was older and calmer.
When that day came, Flash's excuse was his own age. “I’m not sleeping on the ground; I’m too old for that, and it would hurt my back.”
When I suggested air mattresses, my rugged husband replied, “Those aren’t comfortable enough. Maybe we could stay in a cabin with a pillow top mattress.” Then he added, “But Cowboy might walk out the door at night.”
I knew we could shove a bed in front of the door, to make us feel more at ease, but I dropped the subject. Suddenly, taking Cowboy camping felt like too much work.
And so, the only camping Cowboy has done without a roof over his head was his father-son adventure on top of our large trampoline in the backyard, and later when we used our new tent for the first time in the backyard. Both times, Cowboy slept better outside than Flash did.
Finally, two weeks ago, we made our first serious plans to take Cowboy camping. Flash and I were excitedly packing for our First Family Camping Trip. It was all completed in record time, with Flash helping me pack – that should have been my first clue this was happening in my dream. Holding our equipment, including sleeping bags that were on sticks so we could carry them on our backs, we looked like models in an Academy Sports & Outdoors advertisement. And I think plaid shirts were involved. Subconsciously, I was proud of us for taking this step, helping Cowboy through this rite of passage. I couldn’t wait to rustle up firewood, and serve corned beef hash and soup – the camping tradition Mom started when I was a kid. Flash, Cowboy, and I would take hikes, roast marshmallows, and play games by lantern light.
In 4.3 seconds, we’d made our plan, packed, and were ready to walk out the front door to start our adventure. And then, we were in France. Just like that, we were transported to a foreign country from our living room. Which almost never happens.
I looked at Flash, amazed. Admittedly, I thought, Oh wow. This is SO much better than camping, while hoping Cowboy wasn't disappointed.
"Flash," I exclaimed, "we can go to Paris.”
He smiled, as visions of the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe sped through my head.
"And we can go to Spain; it's right next door," I added.
Now, dear reader, when fully awake, I didn’t know exactly where Spain was located; I’m severely geographically challenged.
When I recounted my dream to a friend at church, she replied, “Yeah, like Spain is anywhere near France.”
I laughed and nodded my head, even though I thought it might be fairly close – everything over there is close, compared to driving across Texas. When I got home, I googled. There Spain sat, right next door to France. Apparently, I’m only geographically challenged when I’m awake. If I could've taken the SAT while sleeping, I'd be a Harvard graduate. Instead, it took the better part of 50 years to realize that Idaho is nowhere near Illinois.
Disappointedly, I woke up in the same location as every other morning. Why I remember that dream, is a mystery to me. Importance of subject matter doesn't seem to be a factor in dream memory, since my going to France is not a priority at this time.
But, the more pressing matter is, why did I have to wake up before I saw the sights of France and Spain? What’s the point of going there in my ethereal world, only to be disappointed by the realization that I’ve gone nowhere? Not camping. Not Europe. Nowhere but La-La Land. It’s a cruel joke.
Several months ago, I had a dream I was on a lengthy cruise with my friend Bebe and a large group; I’ve never been on a cruise, but have been contemplating taking one. Last month, I dreamed I was on a retreat with my Sunday School class; I’ve been thinking of planning one. Analyzing those dreams was quite simple. But I’m weary of sleep traveling; I’d prefer taking trips when I’m awake.
Last week, Flash took me out for me birthday while I was in REM. He planned the entire evening, inviting close friends to a restaurant that had bocce ball courts outside. That being in my subconscious made sense; I love going to Saint Arnold’s Brewery in Houston, where we went on my last birthday, and I had my Monumental Bocce Win against Flash. When our server commented that my winning shot was the best he’d ever seen, I could’ve died an ecstatic woman. It was one of my Best Fully Awake Moments.
But this time, in my dream, Flash left my friends and me sitting at our table while he and our friend Barney went outside and played bocce the entire time. I was furious. How dare he plan this and not even spend time with us. I’m so embarrassed, I thought. Ready to set him straight, I marched outside to find them playing all over the grounds, in the mud. It looked nothing like bocce. It might have been rugby, which Flash has never played.
My talking to Flash was useless, which is often the case in the Real World. In spite of my efforts, he and dirt-covered Barney continued to play. When I returned to our table, all my friends were gone. I began making a mental list of apologies to be made.
Then, thank God, I woke up. As Flash and I were fixing Cowboy’s breakfast and lunch the next morning, I told Flash, “You made me so mad last night.”
“It was a dream,” the callous cad responded, assuming correctly my ire was raised while I slept.
“You and Barney were playing bocce or something the whole time we were out for my birthday.”
“Yes, because I do that all the time. Well, good thing you woke up,” he said.
I glared, thinking, I’m not too thrilled with Barney, either.
Flash has repeatedly ticked me off in my sleep. He’s done some outrageous things, and, to make matters worse, he never initiates any fun in my dreams. It’s always my idea to fly without a plane. Or take a road trip to Bora Bora. Or hang out with Matthew McConaughey.
After several dreamless nights, Matt showed up last night. I was at a Mexican restaurant with a group of friends, when I saw my Dreamy Acquaintance walk through the front door. Knowing how thrilled my friends would be, I asked Matt to join us. We’d met before a few other times, subconsciously.
Flashing those pearly whites, he was happy to join us. But my friends didn’t react with shock and awe. It was as if Matthew were one of us, already. Nobody ate. It wasn’t about the food; it was about the company. I asked Matt to join us for dinner later that night. Flash and I had some things to take care of that day, so we needed to leave soon. Now, dear reader, never take this kind of risk; if you meet a celebrity you’ve wanted to have a meal with, either consciously or subconsciously, let those errands go. Your celebrity might be busy. They may not have time to meet you later. They may be beamed over to someone else’s dream in the next second.
But not true-blue Matthew. He assured me, as he walked over to other patrons to visit with them, that he would stay at the restaurant and wait for us until dinner time. How nice. I wasn’t surprised. He’s always the epitome of the perfect Texan gentleman in my dreams; it takes no analysis to determine why he visits often.
Next thing I knew, I was seated in a theater, waiting for a performance to begin. Matt plopped right down beside me. I think we’ve graduated to Dreamy Friends, I thought, smiling from ear to ear.
But then he saw a friend of his, waved, and quickly moved to the third row. Suddenly, Matthew was a teenager. And he went by the name Mylon instead of Matthew. I even remembered, in my dream, having seen some kind of certificate of merit with “Matthew ‘Mylon’ McConaughey” written on it. He no longer looked like himself, but instead, he was a teen version of Mylon LeFevre, my favorite Christian rock artist of all time. He was having a great time horsing around with his buddy. I wasn’t offended or hurt that he moved to his new seat. Because, after all, it’s not like he was outside playing mud-rugby-bocce on my birthday.
I woke up before I could say goodbye, but I know Matthew will be back.
Hey Matt, if we ever meet while awake, let’s make that dinner happen. My husband’s a huge Sahara fan, so he can come along too; we’ll pick a restaurant with no bocce ball courts. And Mylon, please join us; I still think you rock.
Stay tuned to see if my dreams come true, dear readers. And never say never.