Yesterday the first thing I did when I got to work was check our mental health provider’s schedule to see if she had any openings. She didn’t, so I was forced to corner her in the break room instead, which was okay because I needed coffee and that way she couldn’t charge me.
“So just out of curiosity,” I said. “What do you suppose it would mean if a person were to dream they were having sex with a guy like, um, Ryan Gosling maybe? In a shower? And then their mother walked in.”
She spewed decaf, patted me on the back and walked away laughing. And she calls herself a professional. Then again, why would I trust anyone who drinks decaf to begin with?
The dreams have been a little odd lately. Well odd-er. I’ve always had my old standbys. The one where I’m at a rodeo and they’re calling my name to compete and I can’t find my horse, which always means there’s something coming up in my life that I don’t feel prepared for. And then there’s the one where I have to go to the bathroom and the only toilet is in the middle of a room full of people, which generally happens when I’m feeling vulnerable and um, exposed.
Lately, though, my dreams are beyond my interpretation. Like the one about The Comb.
Remember back in the seventies when it was the epitome of cool to carry a big wide-toothed comb in your back pocket? I’m pretty sure John Travolta started it in Welcome Back Kotter. Or maybe it was Saturday Night Fever. Do any of you remember? (Peers at audience.) Oh. Right. A lot of you probably didn’t have hair yet in the seventies. Or even bodies.
Anyway, my husband still has one of those combs. Blue turquoise with enough heft to foil a mugger should the need arise and one broken tooth. He had it when I met him. Refuses to comb his hair with anything else. That thing has traveled with us to every single rodeo, every voyage home for Christmas, every camping trip in a wilderness area accessible only by horseback. The Comb is forever.
Last week, I dreamed I broke The Comb. Three pieces. Unrepairable. I was devastated, quite sure it was going to be the end of my marriage.
At two-forty-five a.m. my husband rolled over, squinted at me and said, “What are you doing?”
“Just checking.” I stowed The Comb safely in the medicine cabinet, shut off the bathroom light and climbed back in bed.
I have no clue what this dream was supposed to mean. I am not aware of any dire marital issues, but I have been writing a lot lately so it’s possible I just didn’t notice when my husband brought in that Russian mail order bride, although I really wish he’d ordered one who’s into dusting. And laundry.
As for the Ryan Gosling dream…well, you’d have to read the scene I wrote just before bedtime that night to understand why I’m pretty sure I know where that one came from.
And no, my mother will not approve.
Kari Lynn Dell – Montana for Real