2018-02-09 / Commentary

My subconscious has gotten lazy

40–Something

So I’m sound asleep and dreaming I’m at the beach. That should be a pretty good start, right?

Unfortunately, it’s the end of the week in my dream. The beach house is an absolute wreck, and I’m supposed to be out in 30 minutes. My clothes are everywhere, and, for some reason, the blanket to my bed is on the floor, and it weighs about 200 hundred pounds.

What kind of dream is this? My subconscious got one part right...I’m at the beach, but that part makes it an even bigger downer.

I’m not dreaming about surfing perfect waves, romantic sunsets, or even my fat butt plastered to a folding chair in the sand relaxing to the point I don’t notice or care about the sun giving me third degree burns. Nope, I’m dreaming about cleaning up with a deadline and throwing my back out picking up a freakishly heavy blanket.

Is that where I am in life? Are we saying I can’t even relax in my sleep? And worse, is this the best my subconscious can come with? I want to wake up thinking I can shred down the face of giant wave, not that I blew a chance to get my security deposit back. How boring is that?

My subconscious has gotten lazy before. I mean it doesn’t take a heck of a lot of creativity to keep sending me to a college classroom completely unprepared for a final exam wearing nothing but a pair of heart-covered boxer shorts.

I graduated a long time ago fully clothed, but if my subconscious wants me to keep reliving my college experience with a slightly embarrassing twist, then so be it. I’ll give it points for sending me back to a part of my youth I’ve already overcome.

I can also deal with dreams of winning the lottery and stuff like that. The creativity isn’t there either, but there’s temporary euphoria.

I’m not asking to dream about monsters or even more traumatic events from my past than college calculus, but at least those kinds of horrific dreams would require a little work from my subconscious. The imagination would get involved, and there would be enough plot twists and creativity to make Hollywood proud. I might wake up in a cold sweat panting like a terrified puppy, but I’d know my brain put in some effort.

What effort is my brain putting forth to dream about cleaning a beach house? Granted the 200-pound blanket is original, but other than that, this kind of dream is good for nothing but ruining a perfectly fine R.E.M. cycle. A dream is supposed to give me a fantastic fantasy world, not boredom and ulcers.

Cleaning a beach house is simply not dream worthy. Let me use that 200-pound blanket as a cape and send me flying out the beach house to battle zombies, and we may have something. I’d probably wake up screaming like a little girl but better to wake up terrified from a fantasy world than stressed out over something all too real.

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