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10 Points

April 28, 2009

I had the worst dream last night. It awakened me at 3:30 a.m. with pulse pounding, a lump of horror lodged in my throat and the certainty that I need to avoid the LaCarreta parking lot in the future. In getting up to splash water on my face and work out the tightness in my muscles, that certainty has left, but the horror of the dream persists.


In it I was in what I believe was the LaCarreta parking lot, behind the wheel of the Expedition. The dream started as though it were a video that had been paused and had resumed when I was there once again to view it, as many dreams do. The parking lot was crowded with cars, and for some reason the Expedition felt larger and less maneuverable than usual as I attempted to back out of my parking space.


In the dream, I felt like a moron. I couldn’t back the car up properly, and now, hours later, I can’t quite recall why…it’s like everything that surrounded the car was misty and vague and I just knew that I needed to make a ten-point turn until I was out of my space and perpendicular to the other cars in the lot. Then I shifted into drive, decided against that, shifted back into reverse instead, and put my arm across the back of the passenger seat to back up just a little more until I had it just right, craning my head to look backwards as I did so.


I can hear my husband now. Dang women drivers. Couldn’t drive a Tonka Truck. It’s okay. I’ll just wait here while you practice.  


Giving myself a mental shake, I depressed the gas pedal and started to back up. For some reason, though, the car lurched forward instead of reversing backwards. I whipped my head around to look forwards, and all of the other cars in the lot suddenly became people…people eating at little bistro tables…people looking at me with shocked and terrified expressions as I plowed over them in the Expedition. Panicked, I stomped on the brake, but the car simply went faster instead of stopping. The whole time, all I could think was “why are there tables in the parking lot? Why are there people eating lunch in the stinking LaCarreta parking lot?! LaCarreta doesn’t have bistro tables!”


And, naturally, that’s when I woke up. My right thigh muscle is sore today from, I assume, clenching in my vain and desperate attempts to stomp on a non-existent brake. If I was going to analyze my dream, I’d say it probably had something to do with feeling like I have no control over anything or something like that. I am stomping on the brakes of my life, saying “HOLD UP! WAIT A MINUTE! CAN WE REVERSE FOR JUST A SECOND, OR AT LEAST 10-POINT THIS SUCKER INSTEAD OF JUST WHIPPING IT ON OUT INTO THE STREAM OF THINGS? I THINK I NEED A BREATHER.”


Or maybe the Mexican food I ate the other day just disagreed with me.

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