Dream

I don't dream a lot. Or, rather, I don't remember them very often. I find dreams fascinating--a mix of recent events and deep memories and (seemingly) pure randomness.

Since I think that one of my prime abilities is to take nonsense and restate it as a pattern (or to take nonsense and restate it as slightly more jargon-laden nonsense), I enjoy hearing about my friends' dreams and then theorizing what they were dreaming about. Right? Way off base? It doesn't matter. It's issue spotting without a teacher's guide.

I tend not to analyze my own dreams, though, even if I remember them. I fear that I might convince myself that what I'm half-jokingly claiming that they mean is actually what they meant. When, in fact, I tend to think dreams are like private versions of made for TV movies that we just catch the middle of.

In any case, I had a dream recently.

I was standing in a bar/restaurant. It was in California. Not a specific bar/restaurant, and I couldn't, like, see the Golden Gate Bridge or the Hollywood sign to indicate it was California, but I just KNEW it. You know?

I also knew that I had run into a guy's car earlier that day. I knew I was at fault.

OK. So. I was there. My best friend growing up, Big Cow, was there. And a female... entity... was there. A woman, but not a specific woman, although it didn't seem odd that a woman entity that was familiar to me but that didn't have a specific form was in the booth near me.

Anyway, she and Big Cow were sitting in a booth (not together, but on opposite sides). I was standing near the booth, and I was having a conversation. I was talking to a muscle-bound man who was extremely agitated... agitated that I had run into his car's bumper.

He (with his large friend lurking in the background) kept insisting that I owed him $3200. That seemed a bit steep for me, given I only damaged his bumper, and while I knew I was at fault AND I knew he could beat me up, I still didn't want to pay him that money, or outwardly lie.

So our conversation went something like this:

Him: You need to pay up.
Me: Yes, I do need to take responsibility.
Him: $3200.
Me: I will definitely pay an appropriate amount.
Him: You are gonna pay me $3200, right?
Me: Trust me: you'll get a check for repairs when I get home.

Haha. He kept calling me on it, and I kept trying to dance around it. I think we shook hands at one point, and he had a very firm grip. I think he had a New York accent, too, which is weird given we were in California.

I made eye contact with the female entity sometimes but she was totally uninterested (not uninteresting, of course, but uninterested). I don't remember ever even looking at Big Cow, although I remember thinking that if I got into a fight he wouldn't be much help in spite of being a very big guy himself.

I woke up. I thought it exceedingly odd. I decided to remember it, so I focused on the events in the dream and I typed them up (in a very similar form to the italicized, above). It didn't make sense to me.

But then it did. I hate to admit it that a dream at all influenced my real life (that's crazy, right?) but in this case, it sort of did.

Here we are, less than a week later. And I broke up with my girlfriend tonight.

I can connect the dots, between my dream and that decision, but... I think I'll keep it to myself. I'm sorry. For so many things, I'm sorry, of course. But for not connecting the dots for you: I'm sorry.

Killing Me Softly (?)

Aging happens to all of us. Until we're dead, I guess (although even that exception could be debated).

I've been pretty lucky in my life on a variety of fronts, one of which is injuries. I broke my pinky finger in elementary school, and I had a series of turned ankle incidents in late high school and into college, but generally I've been lucky. In spite of my relatively advanced age, I've awoken each morning with few (or no) aches and pains.

That is... until recently.

About a week ago, I noticed that my leg hurt. My calf and part of my thigh and my butt. All up the left side, it hurt when I stood up or walked around. It's been a week, and it's not better.

I plan on going to the doctor if it doesn't clear itself up soon, but it's gotten me to thinking.

Thinking about how I perceived aging. And how it might be much, much worse than I'd anticipated.

While I have, for some time, been able to (intellectually) wrap my mind around some of the psychological impacts of aging (lost opportunities, impending nonexistence, etc.) I always had the physical aspects of aging as something creeping and inhibitory. I envisioned that my mind would be slightly less sharp over time, that I would be more easily winded (and enflabbened) and that I might even have to consider dating women in their mid-thirties.

In other words, I envisioned a rather slow decline. Of course, there's always the I met a quick end, but that sort of death is not something I've spent too much time thinking about (other than cat- and student loan-related issues...)

So... I'd anticipated old age creeping up on me: a descent into infirmity before whatever identifies me as "me" is snuffed out. Or moves on. Or whatever.

I did not think about an alternative: that getting old might be painful. That it might involve me wincing every time I roll over in bed or that it might contain maladies that occur with no warning and simply never go away.

That would suck.

I complained about my singing voice being gone some time back in my blog and it (for whatever it's worth) is pretty much back now. Maybe my back will right itself, or maybe I'll get a pill or a massage or something that will bring me back into non-pain during all my waking (and some sleeping) hours.

Maybe.

Hopefully.

In the mean time, though, it's given me more to think about and makes me think that maybe (JUST maybe) dating women in their mid-thirties might be the least of my problems down the road.

Saturday Night's All Right

Whether it's in the sense of verbal altercations or actual fisticuffs, I don't get in many fights. In fact, I've only been in one as an adult (January, 2008, defending a friend; I lost, but didn't lose eyes or teeth, so it's fine).

Saturday night I went out with Politica. We went drinking and dancing in Belltown, and we walked the mile or so back to our neighborhood.

It was an uneventful walk until we got about two blocks from my place.

I don't keep up on local politics, but there's been a push to allow more street vendors to sell food in Seattle. It's unclear to me whether the laws or regulations have actually changed, but there seem to be more of them popping up lately, and one of them happens to have popped up about two blocks from my place.

(It sells hot dogs, and while I'm sure the cream cheese-laden pieces are delicious, I don't plan on partaking any time soon. I keep my kitchen stocked with hot dog fixin's, and even I am not lazy enough to not be willing to make that short walk home.)

It was about 2:30 AM when Politica and I approached the stand, and there was a pretty good crowd for a Saturday. People were jibber-jabbering and eating hot dogs. Good stuff.

The crowd was, unfortunately, in our way, and there was not a lot of space to walk between them.

Now, normally I would dodge and move and avoid contact with anyone, but I walked past the first couple of people and, seeing that not ONE person had moved, I got a little aggravated. So I squared my shoulders and just walked forward.

Bumping, of course, into someone.

Someone, of course, who wasn't happy about it.

I'll admit I was not polite. I did not "give" as I walked, and as a result my should hit his shoulder harder than I otherwise would prefer to. Further, 99% of the time if I bumped into a person that hard I would turn and apologize.

But I was irked that they were obstructing the whole sidewalk and the rum in my system had given me precious little inclination to apologize for anything.

While I will admit that I was not polite, there was a marked overreaction on the part of the bump-ee.

I took two steps and then I heard the following gem:

"Do you want to fight?"

I know enough not to turn around. Although I listened for approaching footsteps as I kept walking.

"Do you wanna fucking fight?"

Was it an effort to goad? Was his rage building? I didn't know and didn't want to find out. I can't be goaded. We kept walking.

*splat*

We looked to our left and there, on the sidewalk, was a half-consumed hot dog bun. I saw cream cheese as I glanced down, and I'm not sure if there was meat left or not. I guess it doesn't really matter.

As I walked, I looked over my shoulder and shouted something about the guy wasting his money on a hot dog.

Some time later, as we were safely ensconced in my apartment, I reflected that I was really glad that the guy didn't hit me with that hot dog. I like to think that I can't be goaded, but a cream cheese hot dog hitting me in the back of my head and neck might have been enough for me to make an exception... even if it was to my detriment.