I have ridiculous dreams.
They’re vivid and memorable, but mostly insane. For as long as I can remember, I’ve had a very active dream life, recalling details with spectacular clarity.
I know people who don’t remember their dreams and don’t really understand how profoundly certain ones can affect you. They’ll listen to me describe a dream, making “Are you speaking English?” faces and reply, “You have weird dreams.” Guess what? That offers exactly NO comfort to me when I just told you I dreamed my nephew grew a vestigial tail an hour before his prom, leaving his mom scrambling to find a tailor specializing in those types of alterations.
I’ve learned the hard way not to go into great detail about a crazy dream until I first ask if they’re a dreamer. If they say, “No, I never remember my dreams” I say, “So, do you have any good kale recipes?” If they say, “Oh yeah, my dreams are insane” then I know I’m safely in the company of a like-minded dreamer who can appreciate hearing how I met the inventor of Pretzel Crisps at a pool party, where the pool had no water, but instead had Bill Clinton skate boarding through the deep end, wearing nothing but headphones and a toe ring.
I know people who want to learn how to master lucid dreaming for the sole purpose of hooking up with celebrities as they catch some zzz’s. But it was always more important to me to figure out how to wake myself up from bad dreams. I was forever falling off roller coasters, being chased by extremely bad guys and actually dying in a variety of ways. I’m not sure how, but finally I began to recognize a terrible dream when it was happening, and wake myself up. Not every time—I still ran into lots of knife-wielding hoodlums with ill-intent—but it got better.
To the experts who say we dream in black and white and die in real life if we die in a dream, I say NAY. I’ve been shot several times, seen the red blood and faded clear to my death … and here I am. Holla!
One particular dream I’ve never forgotten: I hailed a cab, he pulled over, I slid in. As soon as I did, the guy who was already in the backseat pulled out a silencer, put it to my temple and shot. It made this soft pphhffww sound. I felt no pain, but thought, “Uh-oh” as my head fell softly to the window. I fully knew I was a goner … but not before I prayed to God to bring comfort and peace to my loved ones.
For those of you feeling a little down right about now, you need to know something. I am blessed with the ability to dunk in my dreams. And I dunk HARD. It brings the crowd to its feet in unified jubilation to see this bad ass 5’6″ chick snagging alley oops out of thin air and throwing them down like I’m the spawn of Lebron (and with that unintentional rhyme, a spawn of Jay-Z, too—man this life is good).
I’ve also flown in my dreams. I’m one of the more fortunate ones who only have to flap a few times per mile, enabling me to enjoy the journey rather than feel like I’ve been to an all-day crossfit class. I rock a few big sweeping flaps and off I soar, high above the ground, wind in my birdlike face (my eyes are the same, but I have a beak—fortunately it’s a pretty spring salmon color, making me more special than a finch or sparrow).
I distinctly remember the first time I flew, my predominant thought was, “Oh my gosh, I’ll never pay for another flight in my life!” But on the flip side, if I never flew commercial again, I’d never have the
joy hilarious horror of a gloved security guard frantically rubbing me down until he found the dangerous offender—my Fitbit pedometer—clipped to my bra.
So yeah, I get murdered sometimes, but I also get airborne a lot.
The market is flooded with studies, articles and websites dedicated to dream interpretation. But my dreams are often less “meaningful” and more just like my brain wanting to do “Mad Libs” based on my recent thoughts and experiences.
Let me explain.
In a recent dream, I walked down a boardwalk.
I walked on a beautiful boardwalk on our latest vacation.
I saw my mom squatting in a cove of sand.
My mom was the last person I text before I fell asleep that night … and I, myself, was squatting by a cove of sand we saw while on vacation, watching a little crab moving around.
She pulled a baby seal out and his face was a real baby’s face.
I was watching and loving the baby seals around the coves on this trip … and actually just dream about babies a lot. (although usually I’m in the hospital for what I believe to be terminal stomach cancer, only to find out I’m actually pregnant, dilated to a 10 and confused as to how babies are made.)
She handed him to me and I cradled him but realized when she scooped him up, he got sand caked in his little throat, causing him to become still and start to die.
Recently, my mom had asked me if I’d heard about all the baby seals shoring up dead or malnourished in California and I’d also read a tweet from Anderson Cooper about the same phenomenon before I went to sleep.
The people walking next to me started telling me he was mine now and I needed to care for him and love him back to life.
I’d just had dinner with a friend who was talking about their journey with IVF, embryo transfer and embryo donation/adoption … and I told her I would never have a problem accepting and loving a baby I hadn’t created myself.
I started cradling and snuggling the baby seal boy—kissing his smooth head and giving him all the warmth and love I could transfer to his little body.
The day before, I’d come across a picture of my mom cuddling up her grandbaby who was wrapped like a burrito in one of those little towel robes.
He started coming back to life and stretching in my arms. He then opened his eyes, grinned and reached his little pointer finger up to touch my cheek but accidentally poked my eye.
Kellie Rasberry, from Kidd Kraddick in the Morning, recently told the story of their puppy trying to show her love and inadvertently scratching her eye.
Then I came to a gate at the pier and they wouldn’t let me by until I presented my credentials.
We’d been at the Indian Wells tennis tournament on vacation and I tried to get into a certain part of the stadium to take a picture and the guard asked for my credentials.
Someone said they’d take the baby from me while I pilfered through my bag, but they actually took him and put him back in the water where they thought he belonged.
A similar thought that crossed my mind as I heard about embryo adoption.
I finally got to the cove and spotted him happily swimming with colorful koi.
A brewery we visited on vacation had a bunch of koi in their fountain.
See? Mental, subconscious, dreamland Mad Libs. My mind piecing together a story from random activities and thoughts of the day.
Side Note: This doesn’t explain why my next dream consisted of me on a big yacht, watching my sister jet ski in our wake—doing tricks and flips and eventually sticking a perfect landing on the deck of the ship—as we all cheered uproariously, helped her out of her wetsuit and fed her fresh mango.
And of course I still have these typical anxiety dreams:
- Realizing I’m at the end of semester and I have never been back to my math class since the first day.
- Trying to text someone something important and my phone is either dead or changing each letter I type to an unwanted emoji.
- Being back on my college basketball team—but every time I receive a pass and turn to shoot, the ball turns into a throw pillow or a book and I can’t set my hands right or get the proper rotation.
- Not being able to find what I’m looking for—a loved one, a place, my phone, my camera, my clothes or my high school locker.
Hmm, reading through this has made me realize a couple of (now) apparent things.
1. I need to spend more time figuring out how to hook up with celebrities in my dreams.
2. I need a baby seal boy embryo … preferably from Stephen Curry and Alicia Keys.
I’d love for you to join me on Facebook … it’s good for your health.