Dreams

As you know, I pay attention to my dreams and, in fact, work hard to retrieve them--something that's gotten harder, frankly, with aging. DEAR AGING, WHY YOU GOTTA BE SO HARSH?

Anyway, this morning I woke up wondering why I bother to remember, because truthfully most of my dreams are mildly to hugely unpleasant. Like last night I dreamed this.

Random Dream Person who I Don't Know in Real Life: I've been meaning to tell you this for awhile, but you smell bad.

Me: I do?

Random Dream Person: Yes, you do.

Me: (with growing horror) Have I always smelled bad?

Random Dream Person: Bingo.

Really? These are the dreams I'm so desperate to remember? I think I'll get a new hobby.

Watch out what you wish for

So way back last winter, I posted about dreams and how I wasn't having them anymore and also how SAD this made me because I think writers should dream vigorously and pay attention while they're doing it. And many of you offered suggestions about how I could up my dream quotient, including Kerry who suggested I break something because pain helps trigger dreams. Apparently that's why I broke MY WRIST. Thank you very much for the suggestion, Kerry!

Anyhoo! I did dream twice last night. Here's what I dreamed:

1) I dreamed I was telling a really long story to a group of people and realized halfway into it that I was being comletely boring.

2) I dreamed that I noticed a boy in a cast whose upper arm was as flabby as mine because his muscles had atrophied, too.

These are the kind of dreams I put into a category called GRUBBY LITTLE DREAMS. Included (for me) in this category are dreams where I try on swimsuits and the sales clerks laugh at me or where I step into sprinkler holes and trip in front of my old junior high school.

Meanwhile, Stephenie Meyer dreams about golden, glistening vampires swirling about in meadows.