Sleep is the time when my mind takes flight. If I could remember everything I’ve dreamed across these 40-plus (plus) years, I could have written the world’s greatest novel.
I could be writing this column from my sumptuous estate in the south of France.
Lately, I’ve been doing my darndest not to do something I’ve spent my whole life doing – meddling in other people’s business.
It’s hard, at appropriate times, for the fire dog not to run when the bell rings, you know?
Take, for example, the happy news in our family that my son is getting married later this year.
His sister, my sister, my brother and extensions of all the above are delighted with his fiance’ Jamie and we look forward to many happy experiences with our first redhead since my grandfather Big David’s Arkansas uncle who said he was in the theater, but whom later was discovered to be a female impersonator.
Anyway, this wedding thing has become a major emotional force in my life. That is, restraining myself about this wedding thing.
Jamie has been most kind to keep me informed and invited to do this and that.
And I am diverting myself with my immensely annoying habit of making lists about the rehearsal dinner, etc., etc., etc.
At first, thoughts of these details prevented sleep. But I’ve overcome that deprivation by a Scarlet O’Hara, “I’ll worry about that tomorrow.”
Frankly, it is months before I’ve got to get my part in all this nailed down.
But with sleep come dreams.
This week, I had a doozie about the wedding – complete with a dream that Jamie made all the female participants, including the mothers of the couple, wear saffron full-length gowns that looked like Korean kimonos with quilted yokes, and matching gloves.
That was bad enough. But when we filed into the banquet hall for the ceremony, I noticed that one of my son’s mentors, reading aloud some assigned text, was seated in a booth above it all, like the guys at NFL Game Day.
Then, I suddenly realized, in my dream, that the female participants were assigned to sit in a curtained room just off the arena, which meant that I was not going to see the ceremony.
Lordy, I started waving my hands and shouting loudly that I wasn’t going to be stuffed away and miss everything, oh no, oh no, oh no I wasn’t!
My dream-shouting created such a commotion that I realized I’d stepped out of my specially saffron-dyed pumps.
The solution, of course, I decided, was to step into two saffron-hued, plastic drinking glasses, something I did as a child when I wanted to pretend I was a ballerina.
As you can imagine, I woke up in the middle of the night with quite a start. I felt like that poor woman in the TV series “Medium,” who’s always waking up with a gasp of foreshadowing.
To stop this midnight mania, maybe I should avoid the late-night boiled shrimp and cocktail sauce.
Contact Patsy R. Brumfield at (662) 678-1596 or firstname.lastname@example.org.
Patsy R. Brumfield/NEMS Daily Journal