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Odd have been my dreams of late.
A couple of nights ago while staying in my mother's condo, I was sleeping on a love seat in the basement, extended somewhat for my feet by the addition of an ottoman. It was some solid Barney Rubble living whose discomforts were somewhat made up for by the lack of morning light, even in the summer. If I had wanted to sleep until noon, the light was cooperating.
But I had me a transgender dream. I can't recall ever gender-jumping in a dream before, but whatever.
I wasn't kissing Valentino by a crystal blue Italian stream or anything. Instead I was the protagonist in a girl's novel from the mid-century. I was a spunky young woman, barely qualifying as an adult, possibly played by a young-adult Shirley Temple, who was training to join some version of a Naval WACs unit (WAVES?). I was gung ho and spirited, tossing my fist and telling the other girls how our rescue ships were going to swing in to help the distressed combat ships returning from battle, providing hospitalization and respite for the boys while their ships underwent repairs (which we were also willing to roll up our sleeves and help with, if necessary).
So that was my act. But it turned out to be all bullshit. Once we were commissioned, even though I was in some sort of leadership role at 19 years old or whatever, I was the biggest phony. Somebody was all, "The USS Abbott is limping back to port! We've got to go help them!"
And I'd be all "Let's go!! Oh, wait, it looks like another rescue ship is closer. Oh well, next time!!"
And somebody else is all, "The Frankford has taken heavy fire and is listing heavily! Those boys need our help!!"
And I'm all, "You know, at least some reports have mentioned enemy u-boat patrols in those waters. Technically, the Frankford may still be considered to be engaged, and there are very specific protocols that we're supposed to follow."
I was the worst girls novel heroine ever. I was sorry to wake up, getting so much comedy as I was out of my own cowardice.
Then, back at home two nights ago, I was enjoying my own bed and snoring my way into my REM cycle. Friends of mine had been taken prisoner in the forest, and were held in a campsite by hostiles. But I and maybe one or two other commandos gained the power of transmuting into animals. And disguised as scurrying little forest creatures — things with cute noses — we snuck into camp and rescued them all.
But while making a break for it, one of my friends realized he or she had forgotten something of modest importance — a hat, a code book, a picnic basket ... I'm unsure — but I told them to keep going, and I would double back for it. (I think I was really committed in this dream to make up for my previous fainthearted performance as a WAVE.)
But when I doubled back, the enemy campers had transmuted into animals too — dangerous ones. I realized one had become a vicious leopard, and as he or she noticed me, I darted up a tree for high ground. But I was too late, as the leopard had made an acrobatic lunge for me. Realizing my ass was in trouble. I tried to make a rapid leap to a second tree.
It was at this point that I awoke to realize I had hurled myself from my bed and was descending. My forehead hit the back of the end table, my ribs caught the front of the end table, and my wrist collapsed beneath me on the floor.
I sat there for five or six minutes, waiting for the pain to dull and checking for breaks. I think I'm all good in that department, but it's a day and a half later and my right side is all black and blue and I'm breathing like Juan Uribe is sitting on my chest.
WAVES-me might have been far less heroic than badger-me or vole-me or whatever I was, but WAVES me is likely in much better shape. I feel like I got in a bar fight.
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