It’s a little-known made up statistic that 9/10 people who insist on telling you about the dream they had, start re-telling it with these seven dreaded words, seven words that would make even your mother cringe. Because the truth is, no one wants to hear about your dream, not even your mum. I know that inside your head, it’s a vivid, incredible collection of imagery, heightened feelings, and impossibilities, but you won’t be able to tell it well enough to convey even 1% (*) of what it felt like to dream it. No, really. You might have dreamt you’d been to Shangri-la and back again, and it still won’t make a good story.
That’s why I would like to publicly apologise to my significant other. This morning I regaled him with the particulars of a dream that left me so out of sorts, I woke up in a panicked state at 5:45 and couldn’t get back to sleep.
I mean it was a particularly crazy dream. My X-boyfriend was in it, except he had an afro (he’s white), and so was Kevin Smith – the director and podcaster. We were at some kind of festival up a mountain, where the staff were paid to sweep the snow. I didn’t like that we slept outside, or that I didn’t get to do any ablutions in the morning, or that I couldn’t get home before midnight that night. I also didn’t like not having my mobile phone with me, because I couldn’t tell anyone where I was. A former friend was there too, telling me about all the mistakes she had make at work, and apologising for being a crappy friend. Finally, I teed up a ride home with one of the snow-grooming help on his motorcycle. And then I woke up.
See? Boring, weird and enough to make my mother cringe.
* Another made up statistic