Who needs psychedelic drugs…
… when you’re in the midst of peri-menopause? They tell you about the sleep disturbances, the night sweats – all that great stuff – they don’t tell you that your dreamscape will be a cross between Terry Gilliam and Wes Anderson.
Last night, Inigo Montoya was waxing my bikini line before he replaced my kneecaps with silver plating. To be fair – Inigo Montoya had been featured on the Mindy Project and I had watched an episode of Bones while I was on the treadmill. It is possible I’ve been watching too much Netflix.
For years, I’d had no dream retention and now… TECHNICOLOR dreams. In one night I can have 4 or 5 major dream excursions. Hopping between
murder mystery and house-shopping, archaeology and extreme haircuts –
usually accompanied by night sweats – blankets off – then the chills as
the sweat cools, so in your dream you’re now naked in front of your
Grade 9 Geography class, with only post-its to cover your interesting
bits.
I awake bearing a grudge against David because in one of my panic attack-inducing dreams there’s a demon child who throws a patio door at me. Trying to scream – only managing a whimper in my sleep – David ‘there-there’ing me in his sleep, one arm curving around my midriff, patting me ineffectually when what I really need is to be able to climb inside of him so that he can keep me safe.
“You don’t protect me,” I say petulantly over breakfast.
“I was asleep!”
“You were awake enough to recognize that I was crying, you patted me, but then you just went back to sleep.”
“Next time it happens, you have my permission to wake me up and make sure that I understand the gravity of your situation.”
“Wake you up violently?”
“If need be.”
I smile. “You love me.”
“Yeah.”
“Enough to take an elbow to the gut?”
“Yeah.”
