If I want to ensure an eye roll from my husband, parents, or brother, all I need to do is utter the following seven words:
“Last night I had the weirdest dream.”
Because…well, I have weird dreams. And I remember them. And I feel the need to recount those dreams in excruciating detail to the first person I see when I wake up.
Why do I do this? My mother would say it’s because I process verbally. And, okay, that’s definitely true. But I suppose I also share my dreams to have someone else (a) verify that the story I’m about to tell was actually a dream and not real, and (b) help me understand what in my subconscious could have spawned such a truly bizarre storyline.
For example, in the past week alone, I have dreamt the following:
– I was aboard the Titanic as it hit the iceberg and was desperately trying to find my husband on board as I made my way to the stern. I was baffled by the people on board who remained in the bow, yelling, “Haven’t you seen the movie? Don’t you remember Kate and Leo hanging on for their lives?”
– I was living in the midst of the zombie apocalypse. It was scary.
– I gave birth to the baby, and the hospital named him Patrick for me. When I said that wasn’t the name I wanted, my husband told me he’d take care of it. When I looked at the birth certificate, it said, “Brian St. John Serpentine” (St. John pronounced in the British way — “sin-jon”). I cannot tell you how very, very wrong that name is.
Now, I can sort of/kind of explain the third dream. We recently picked a baby name, and doing so involved a fair amount of discussion . But “Brian St. John Serpentine”? We have never discussed any of those names. Brian is my brother’s name, and Jews don’t name babies after living relatives, and the other names…just, no. And as for the other two dreams…where the heck did those come from?
For a while, I kept a dream journal, trying to piece together elements of my dreams to see if there was a logical source for some of the material therein. Sometimes there was — a conversation I’d had earlier in the day or a movie I’d seen on TV. But other times, journal entries would end with sentences like, “And then we went to a press conference for footballers’ wives, including Posh Spice.” Huh? What is Posh Spice doing in my subconscious?
I’ve stopped keeping the dream journal, though maybe someday I’ll pick it up again. Who knows? My subconscious could be full of writing prompts. But will I ever stop regaling my family with the details of my bizarre reveries? I have two words for you: dream on.
Do you remember your dreams? And if so, do you share them with others? Do you ever wonder where in your subconscious those dreams came from?
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