October 19, 2005

Our Nightmares, Ourselves

I was sure I’d have some good material for today. I took the bus into work, and guess what? It was completely uneventful. Nobody leered or smelled funny. Nobody pissed me off by holding up the bus so they could finish smoking. It only took half an hour, which is just about what it takes me to drive. I wasn’t even all that annoyed when we were held up by construction and ended up getting to work seven minutes late. It was actually kind of… fun. And I’m not even spending money on gas, or a parking sticker, or anything. I could read my book if I wanted. I don’t expect it to be like this everyday; I’m an optimist, but also a realist, and I’m always waiting for the other shoe. Hence the title of my blog.* Obviously, something noteworthy (hopefully funny) is bound to happen on my excursions on public transportation, and I shall surely write about it then.

Not to worry—I have backup material.

Are you any good at dream interpretation? I had a wicked weird dream the other night: I was pregnant. I have had dreams where I was pregnant before, but they are usually that I have just found out and I’m panicking about it, like “Should I abort? Who is the father? And why in the hell don’t I remember ever having sex?” That’s the nutty thing about being single—when you have pregnant dreams, you don’t automatically assume it’s your boyfriend/husband who knocked you up. It could be anyone. It could turn out to be Kermit the Frog, and you’d just have to accept it, like, OK, that happened, but hey, Kermit’s a good guy, and I could do worse, so I guess now I need to find a place backstage at the Muppet Show for my frog-baby’s crib and hope Piggy doesn’t kill us in our sleep. There’s no standing relationship to refute the ridiculousness of that scenario. (sigh) Maybe I drive men away. My father once told me I emasculate men. The fact that I took it as a compliment probably means it’s true.

So anyway: me, dream, pregnant. I am in the hospital, since I am not just-found-out-pregnant but nine months plus, with a huge swollen abdomen and labor pains that my brain is making me actually feel in my unconscious, real-life body. I don’t remember any anxiety about being pregnant, just that I was about to give birth and I was betting it was going to hurt. A lot. My entire family was in the delivery room with me, but I guess I wasn’t ready to blow yet, because there was a definite lack of doctors, nurses and stirrups. I got the sense that my family was getting bored waiting for me to give life. I guess that’s why I didn’t think it was a dream—there are some where you realize you’re dreaming, and you can have fun with it, but everything seemed pretty-true-to life, pregnancy aside. My family acted like they usually do: I needed something from a high shelf (Demerol? I dunno) and I asked my brother to get it for me. He said “Why do I have to get it?” And I said, “Well, because I’m a little bit busy being incredibly pregnant.” And he said “So?” We got into a fight over this. You can see how I thought it was real. Eventually, my mother told him he had to do whatever I said “because she’s pregnant. She wins.” SUBTEXT, much, brain? Geez.

Cut to the next segment of my dream, where I am walking down the street, still pregnant, but not in labor. I guess this dream was edited by Quentin Tarantino. I walked by an orphanage, and all the kids were on the lawn, wearing tunics with rope belts, like the poor undernourished urchins I apparently think they are. Two of them came up to me; one had red hair and freckles, and was about six, the other was much younger and had dark hair and deep brown eyes. They were really beautiful kids, but fromt heir expressions, you’d think they were forty years old. They looked sad and anguished, like refugees. The older one asked me, with an accusatory tone, “Why did you go and get pregnant?” Real Me didn’t know why, so Dream Me didn’t know either. “I don’t know. It sort of happened.” The younger kid started to cry. “What’s wrong?” I asked him. Dream Beedoo is very maternal. “He knows you won’t want to adopt us now.” The older kid said, with hate in his eyes.

Now, listen. I have always wanted to adopt. There are already so many kids being born who don’t have parents or homes, it seems wasteful to have more just because you want them to look like you. And although I was pregnant in my dream, I still wanted to adopt these kids. I even knew their names. They were George and Francis. “Of course I still want to adopt you!” I said. The older kid scoffed. He was so grounded when I woke up. The little kid (George) cried harder. “I will! I promise!” I tried to hug him, but he just stood there, sobbing. “Yeah,” Francis crossed his arms, “but you won’t love us as much as your baby.”

Et tu, uterus? Et tu?

I stood back up and put my hands on my hips, Mom-style. “Look,” I said, “You are my kids. I don’t care where you came from, I will still love you. I love you and your brother and this baby all the same. We are all family and I love you equally.” The little kid stopped crying. He wiped his face on his arm. Francis was still glaring at me, but managed to raise an eyebrow. I could tell he was thinking it over.

Then I woke up. Weird, huh? What does it all mean? And don’t tell me I have an unfulfilled desire for children—that’s exactly what my reproductive organs want you to think. It has to be deeper than that. I was probably just subconsciously reminding myself that we’re out of milk, or I need to get new shoes, or something.

Anyhoo, no more Lifetime before bed. There should be a warning label.

* In case you needed something for the at-home trivia game. You know you made one.

No comments: