This will crack you up.
I know I complain about having horribly prosaic dreams. I wake up counting things, or trying to remember directions to where I was driving in a dream. So many dreams about searching for high school classes I haven’t attended all semester, and math quizzes. It’s like I can’t get enough of real life and so drag it to bed with me. But occasionally I’ll have a dream that is completely original. Like last night…
I dreamed I decided I wanted to try being an exotic dancer. Yes. 50-something, top-of-her-BMI, B-cup, bespectacled, barely-in-shape, thoroughly sober, former soccer mom me. I have no idea where the dream came from. But Dream Laura had it on her bucket list, and it’s a damned strange thing for her to have on her bucket list, because it’s certainly not on mine.
My dream dancer idea wasn’t very thought out. There must have been an amateur dancer night in the club at the mini-mall in the dream, because I didn’t give much thought to what I was going to do once I got there. I was pretty much just preoccupied with what I was going to wear. I managed to get together a red crop top, some pretty small shorts, tall black boots, and some kind of stretchy head wrap about six inches tall with a pink rainbow of colors on it. My hair–sticking out of the head wrap–was extra-blonde and done in stiff curls. There was sparkly silver eye makeup involved, but no eyeglasses. At least I gave myself that dream advantage.
I don’t own a pickup truck IRL, but I drove one to the mini-mall, and parked. Suddenly, I was petrified, realizing that the whole project was just this side of insane. (I’m pretty sure I’d gotten a fake tan, too, which was actually the least realistic part of the whole scenario.) I sat in the truck feeling very self-conscious, wondering what I had been thinking. The truck window was down, and my daughter came over to talk to me. Her fiancé was waiting on the sidewalk in front of the mini-mall laundromat (I’m really sorry N and D for dragging you into this nutty dream!). I told my daughter that I couldn’t go through with it, and she told me that I really should pursue my dream if I felt it was right. While Dream Laura truly appreciated her support, I’m grateful to know that my real-life daughter would’ve had me locked up until the dance fever passed.
The dream ended with a sweeping feeling of relief, and I backed the truck out of the parking place and headed home.
Maybe it was just another anxiety dream. I’d been reading about Imposter Syndrome earlier in the day. As an exotic dancer, I couldn’t be more of an imposter. Or maybe because I’d been watching a television show with commercials for an insulin product that used this song throughout. Whenever I hear it, I have an automatic dance response. All I know is I was VERY grateful to wake up in my bed and not on some stage at a club in a mini-mall.
Now that I think about it, I may expand it into a short story. But the research? That’s not going to happen.
May 25th Words
Journal: 0 words
Long fiction: 0 words
Short fiction: Light editing, lots of reading
Non-fiction: 0 words
Blogging: 591 words
Exercise: 45 minutes treadmill
(Photo credit: iStockphoto by Deklofenak)