If I had to list out some of my (many) talents, sleeping would certainly be in the top 10, if not top 5. That shouldn’t detract from the adeptness of the other talents (and note that I’m using that word both very literally and figuratively, depending upon which I’m referencing), its just the I’m especially good at all things relating to sleep: falling, staying, returning to, anywhere and everywhere. Insomnia is a foreign concept to me, something I’ve experienced only a handful of times, and as any good sleeper will attest, I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy nor a jackass ex-boyfriend. Really, it was the worst.
Beyond sleeping, I also find myself in the camp of talented dreamers. Even as a little girl, my dreams were always very vivid, and while I wouldn’t go so far to describe them as lucid, they are always at the very least affective. This combination, being able to and being good at sleeping, as well as having overly realistic, often very emotional, dreams means that while I sleep A LOT, I’m not always that well-rested. As was the case last evening.
As many other puppy owners will attest, weekends no longer hold the same significance once your schedule is invariably dictated by someone else, that very same someone who has four paws and drools a lot. Lila Belle is no exception; while she doesn’t inherently understand the small joy of turning the clock back each October, nor does she grasp the concept of weekends. To her, every day is a Monday, every day one should awaken in the 5-o’clock hour, and if one is awake, one must PLAY. So yes, most weekends I begin my day when many of my friends are coming home from the bars (or at least heading to SOME bed.) While they’re enjoying their version of post-coital bliss, I’m trudging up Sacramento towards Lafayette Park with all the other dog owners who “enjoy” our bleary-eyed staggers up a hill far to steep for 6am. This weekend, though, due to circumstances that made Friday night (and subsequently Saturday morning) atypical, coupled with a gross rainy day, I opted instead to teach Lila who is boss and literally sleep until 4pm. Amazingly, save for a few minutes of tug-of-war and chewing on one of her many bones, she acquiesced and bequeathed upon me many hours of uninterrupted sleep. I figured I’d try the experiment yesterday as well; while not as successful (5am came early, there was much more playing involved) she still let me snooze until 2pm. Her reward was a huge mid-afternoon “who cares if it’s raining” walk and a well-rested Aubrey.
That’ll teach me to mess with a schedule, however unsavory it may be on the weekends.
Lila, apparently overly well-rested, wanted nothing to do with the 10:00 bedtime that we’re used to. Nor 11, nor midnight. And when she finally did grant me some sleep, it clearly wasn’t very deep since the smallest sound would send her into a barking tizzy. For those of us who live at the corner of 2 busy streets, a “small” sound is an anomoly usually digressed to cacophanous roars of sirens and blaring horns.
When I finally DID fall asleep, the dreams began. Clearly having watched too many episodes of “Alias” back-to-back then followed by a few “Sex and the City”s, my dreams were a seemingly incoherent mix of trite romance, foreign espionage, and a 50’s themed play where my old college lacrosse crush, now graying, joined forces with a notorious asshole from High School to tell me I had to portray the slut character though they, nor Michael Vartan, would smooch me. Dodging their insults, I was trying to find my costume amongst a mishmash of unorganized knicknacks I really should have thrown away years ago and still meet up with the hunky protagonist, one of two lovely lads, their persona switching back and forth so I wasn’t really ever sure who I was looking for, just that I needed to let them know in earnest that I was only playing a trollop, not that I actually was one. It doesn’t take an expert to interpret this one (my experience as a layman dream interpreter with years of subject matter could easily attribut this to real-life events) but that notwithstanding, it didn’t make the experience that less traumatic. Mondays are hard enough without tossing and turning in a stress-related jumble, trying with all your will to defend your relative virtue to those whose opinions are just starting to matter.
And so I’m on my way to work, bleary eyed and on my second cup of coffee, makeup-free and thoroughly unsettled. I’ve got a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach, and am trying, somewhat unconvincingly, to tell myself it’s just the aftermath of a nonsensical dream.