Dreams

France as the sole subject of this blog be damned.  This post is primarily about a recent dream.  

I have a weekly event known as No-Alarm Wednesday, as it is my one day off during the week.  This week, there was a bonus round:  No-Alarm Thursday.

Many students were on a field trip on Thursday, cutting out two of my three classes.  Now, with a commute of nearly an hour to get to my middle school, to go there for an hour of class was a most undesirable outcome.  I honed in on a 60ish year-old woman (and that is the first time I have strung those words together) named Dominique, whose class on Thursday was the only obstacle to a glorious reprise of No-Alarm Wednesday.

On Tuesday, I saw her in the hallway and wasted no time in mentioning that there was a field trip on Thursday for the other classes.  "So I'll just come for your class," I said, casting the rod.  She grabbed my fishing pole, slammed it over her knee, and said, "Ah, c'est ca.  Pas de souci, ca marche.  Je suis un peu pressee la." ("Yes, that's right.  No worries, that works.  I'm in a bit of a hurry here.")  She sprinkled the remnants on the ground, and was on her way.  This wasn't over, Dominique.  

This very same, otherwise sweet lady gives me a ride to the nearby metro station every time I'm at the school.  So it came down to the six o'clock drop-off, when I desperately reiterated, "Alright, well, just your class on Thursday then."  And she responded with some mots doux (gentle words), perhaps the most doux that I have heard since arriving in Lyon:  "Ce n'est pas la peine de venir.  Je m'en occuperai."  ("It's not worth coming.  I'll take care of them.")  Hook, line, and sinker.  

As a result of this low-key work week, I'm coming off a week of wild, non-cyclical sleep.  7:30 a.m. bedtimes; some naps.

I haven't seen the likes of this since my roommate saw very little daylight one week, my junior year of college.  The highlight of his week was when the house was awakened at 10 a.m. to the sound of aluminum cans pelting the walls of our dilapidated, beloved house.  After another nuit blanche ("white night," which means "all-nighter"), he was slap-shotting crunched-up aluminum cans in our backyard, with Christmas music blaring from the iPod dock.  I just wanted to give a shout-out to college, which I miss dearly.

Anyways, when my sleep schedule becomes erratic, some mad libs of dreams come about.  My most recent dream went as follows:

I was at a high school basketball game with some friends, and I was legitimately wondering whether it was still cool for us to be there.  Next thing I know, my mom is waking me up (in the dream, not on the real), asking me what I did last night.  She sat on my bed (later to become a bunk bed... watch your head, Mom), and just then a white, marble-looking insect resembling a Mancala piece crawled up the wall.

I turned away, presumably, as the next time I looked, this insect had become furry, still predominately white but with black spots.  I exclaimed to my mom that this bug looked like a rabbit, and naturally this shaped the following events.  

Suddenly, there is a bunny sitting on the top bunk, and I can see through the wooden bars.  I start punching the bars, enraged by this unlikely transformation.  The climax of the dream- the "You can't handle the truth!" moment- was when I said, "This is just great, Mom!  Add this to your encyclopedia of life:  There are now bugs that turn into rabbits!"  I cannot often quote dreams, as I either don't remember or fall back asleep before transcribing the events.  On this occasion though, I woke up with a smile after my impassioned rant.  I thought my line had some zip to it.

At our high school psychology fair, my good buddy and I chose the very abstract, impossible-to-receive-less-than-a-B subject of dream interpretation. Despite our grueling session of research the night before the fair, I have no theories regarding this dream.  Do you?

***

After an awkward pause in which she judges my choice to include this entry in the blog, a female blog reader, obviously gifted at making conversations in these types of situations, says:  "Oooh, oooh, Dan, do you ever dream in French?"  (She smiles at me with her eyes, and runs her hand through flowing, golden hair)

A:  Yes, I do dream in French from time to time, but don't get excited, missie.  It often involves those around me not understanding a word that I'm saying, which of course is enraging.