Monday, November 10, 2008
I've had trouble sleeping most Sunday nights. My only explanation lies at the bottom of a bottle, and in the sludge of my dehydrated brain. But I'm not offering answers here - only experiences. I link my inability to find REM to my dreams being crazytown-2000 lately, but the one last night - well, she was a real doozy.
First off, I was dating Andre Agassi. Although, I wore his image on all of my Nike tennis t-shirts in middle school, (yah, ok, some of high school too) I have not thought of my potential lover in some years. Turns out he's a real dick in dreams: he asks me to amputate my perfectly healthy leg, which I do, up to my torso. Surprisingly, I didn't seem to miss the leg, as the prosthetic (not filled with beer) worked splendidly.
Most of the dream I was strolling on cobble stone streets and on white, rocky beaches with a hairy figure, who I perceived to be the tennis great, but never actually saw (or got to kiss) him. I felt his presence, the large lion mane glowing in the sunlight, I'd catch hints of its luster in the corner of my eye.
Of course, Andre felt some satisfaction at my frivolous surgery, and he pushed the envelope of his fantasy over to my other perfectly healthy leg. Without a fight, I agreed to amputate my other leg. Post-surgery, I leaped up from the gurney with no trouble at all, and pranced my amended body down an old street.
It was there that it hit me: I'd just amputated both of my legs, that Agassi was a real sadistic jerk, and I was a weak, stupid and regretful woman. All at once I began counting off the ways life would forever be changed, harder and less rewarding. What had I done? How would I explain this bizarre fetish to my mother? She couldn't possibly understand why Andre needed this, and why I would comply.
Wait! Could this be a dream? That's what I asked my dreaming self - but my dreaming self was all, "Yah, right. Best case scenario is you awake with at least one leg missing."
The stress drew itself out for hours, me and my plastic legs bopping along landscapes with the beasty-haired asshole, who I was starting to loathe for asking me to remove half of my limbs. Consoling myself with "you'll weigh less" didn't seem to help. I desperately wanted to take it all back, reasoning the doctor may have my legs on ice somewhere. Perhaps they could be reattached...
And when I thought my life was officially in the crapper, I woke up! And to my astonished delight and relief, both of my hairy, scabby, pale legs were still attached to my stressed and sweaty body. I shook them to check their vitals; I shot them up into the air; I kicked them in jubilation, like a newborn who's just discovered her feet. I H A V E L E G S and I LOVE THEM.