You know those people who say that they can never remember their dreams? Well, I wish I knew more of them; in fact, I wish every single person I knew was like that, because, believe me, I do NOT want to hear about the dream you had last night. Even if I was in it. Even if I was in it and I looked really, really, good. Even if I was in it and I had superpowers and you and I flew around the world fighting evil and eating chocolate (because, as it turns out, flying happens to burn way more calories than anything else—even Pilates). I don’t even want to hear about your dream if I was in it, flying, eating chocolate, fighting evil (all while looking really, really good) and I stopped in the middle of the dream to tell you, “Listen, tomorrow, after we both wake up, if I say I don’t want to hear about this dream then kill me right then and there, because that means I am an imposter, and must die.” Wait a minute—maybe I do want to hear about that dream. Nah, scratch that: I’d rather die.
Now don’t get me wrong: it isn’t that I don’t want to hear about your dreams because they are so boring (although they kind of are, to tell you the truth), and it isn’t that I don’t want to hear about your dreams because you try to tell them to me all the time (although, actually, you kind of do). No, the real reason I don’t want to hear about your dreams is because I am currently living with the Dream King, and I am full up to here with hearing about other peoples’ dreams.
By “Dream King,” of course I don’t mean the actual Dream King: Morpheus. That would be cool. No, what I mean is that I live with my son, Clyde, a boy who not only quite literally leaps out of bed every morning (to the great consternation of the cat who sleeps with him), but also has complete and total recall of the six million dreams he had the night before. Complete and total recall and a desperate need to tell someone about them. Unfortunately, that someone usually ends up being me.
I know. I know: one day he will be living halfway around the world and I will give anything to have him sit on my bed and say, “I had the best dream last night…” but in the here and now it is a little bit much to have to hear in excruciating detail about how he got to level 17 in the “dream” version of Skyrim—all before I have even had my coffee. Actually, it’s a bit much after I’ve had my coffee, too. In fact, I think it’s a bit much to ask me to listen to a description of the “real” version of Skyrim, as well, but that’s a whole other column.
The truth is, though, that I probably shouldn’t be too surprised that Clyde is so willing to “share” the details of his subconscious; after all, this is the same boy who is loathe to flush the toilet in the morning, just in case someone wants to take a look at his latest “creation.” (The fact that no one—ever—wants to look at it has not dissuaded him from this in the least.) Because, really, it’s not like there’s that much difference between what we leave in the toilet each morning and what out subconscious deposits in our dreams. They both come from a place deep inside of us. They both tend to be highly personal. And, as far as I’m concerned, at least, they should both only appear in conversations with the appropriate health care professional.
Well, that’s my dream, at least.