Princess: Will the sky fall next?
So the other night I had this horrible nightmare.
I was in some random city and all the buildings started falling to the ground. Somehow, I managed to dodge the massive debris until the building I was in suddenly started to crumble. I was able to jump out and land in a massive pile of laundry — probably the one that’s taken up residence on the couch in the playroom for almost a week now, not getting folded.
It was a super-disturbing dream, one of those that’s hard to shake. I couldn’t help but wonder why I would be plagued by such horrible thoughts. What is it that I’m so afraid of?
Being the child of two shrinks, I am well-versed on dream analysis. Like when I was a teenager, I described some super-disturbing dream, something along the lines of red rocks turning into a loaf of bread only to have my mom declare, “That’s a marijuana-induced dream. Were you smoking pot last night?”
To this day I’m not entirely sure if she was calling my bluff or what, but damn it, that is super manipulative! I guess that’s what people are talking about when they say I must be really messed up on account of being raised by two shrinks.
This time, a simple internet search would suffice.
I typed in: What does dreaming about falling buildings mean?
The answer I got only confirmed what I already knew: It’s a feeling of losing control or being out of control.
But of what?
My life, I’m happy to report, is pretty drama-free these days.
Like the other day, the most eventful thing that happened was I went to Whole Foods on a Tuesday, even though the rotisserie chicken wouldn’t be on sale until Wednesday. So I walked down the aisles aimlessly, talking gibberish with the babe and mindlessly pulling items from the shelves.
At some point I realized I had loaded up my cart with potato chips, pretzels, chocolate chip cookies, ground beef, tomato sauce, cheese (the cheap kind and the expensive kind) and chocolate (the one that has almonds and sea salt and is almost always sold out). I had a moment of panic, like, good lord, I hope I don’t run into anyone I know from yoga. It was like smoking used to be. God forbid I should eat gluten or dairy or sugar or something that actually tastes good, something I actually enjoy, something that brings me pleasure. It’s not like I’m smoking crack or killing babies, god!
Then there was the time the other day when I accidentally turned on the hazard lights in Ryan’s truck and couldn’t figure out how to turn them off. So there I am, blazing up Highway 82, late for yet another appointment as I’m frantically pawing all around the steering wheel trying to find the damned hazard-light button thing.
The thing I’m wondering is, how the hell was I ever late before I had a baby? Like, I could just walk out of the house, what, without packing the diaper bag or wrestling a fussy 10-month old into a down coat or lugging a 20-pound car seat with a 20-pound baby up a steep flight of stairs? So now I’m late, I’m in the middle of Snowmass Canyon where there is nowhere to pull over, and I’m driving like 60 miles an hour (OK, 70) with my hazard lights on.
I finally find a pull out so I can locate my phone (which is always wedged between the seats where I can’t reach it) and call Ryan. Just as it’s ringing, I notice that the hazard lights button is giant and located smack-dab in the middle of the dashboard where a normal, sane type of person couldn’t possibly miss it.
This is before I park my car 50 blocks away from my appointment and almost eat it pushing my obnoxiously large stroller that is loaded down with a 50-pound diaper bag and a 15-pound pug who rides on the front like a hood ornament. It all happens in slow motion as I lose my footing and flail wildly about until I am almost horizontal and inches from a broken limb only to find purchase on a square inch of dry pavement. After doing a double-take to make sure no one saw, I laugh so hard my stomach hurts. At least I didn’t let go of the stroller. I can just imagine, the unmanned bob careening toward Original Curve at breakneck speeds with a baby who is likely loving the sound of his voice against the vibration.
It’s not just me. Last night Ryan went to reheat the Reuben I’d brought home from Shlomo’s and tried to remove it from the oven with salad tongs, accidentally folding in half and flinging shredded turkey all over the place. In the middle of what was a pretty impressive tantrum, he knocked the soup that was reheating on top of the stove so it splattered all over the floor. It was like someone had set a baby gorilla loose in the kitchen, and this was after the human baby had gone to bed.
So I have no idea why I would feel so out of control or have these horrible nightmares. I thought maybe it had something to do with the horrors in Aleppo or the fact that Donald Trump and his cabinet of thugs are staging a Russian takeover.
Then the following night I had a dream that Adam Levine wanted to kiss me. Just before his lips reached mine, he stopped and said, “I can’t ruin my life for this.”
And I said, “That’s right! I forgot you were married!” And then, “Oh, my god, I’m married too!”
So whatever it is that’s causing the proverbial buildings in my brain to crumble, this too shall pass.
The Princess is kind of glad another season of “The Voice” is finally over. Email your love to firstname.lastname@example.org.
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