The Dream

I have had this dream three times, a nightmare for me. I wake up to the sound of girl shoes CLACKING on cement, a familiar sound from when I lived in Paris.

Paris was the second time in my life that I wore real girl clothes every day: nylon pants (black or brown), black platform shoes (the type that were in style at the time in Paris) and either long fem powerful suit jackets or fitted cashmere sweaters. I never wanted to resemble a man, even though I typically avoided dresses and skirts because I hated the thought of pantyhose, those horrible things that never fit me right because my legs are too long for the small size and my core body too short for the medium or large size. (If you have worn pantyhose will you appreciate the discomfort.)

During this nightmare, I can hear the CLACK of the girl shoes. I am not in Paris, but rather in New York and I am standing right outside of Central Station, trying to get my cell phone to work. I am walking along, going in a specific direction with the noise, the smell, and the grime of the city all making it rather difficult to make the call. My competitive side is happy because I have “won” and I always do in fact enjoy that precise dominating moment. And with great pride I call my husband to tell him of my victory.

It’s then that realize I am in a sharp dark suit, a skirt no less, with a peach-colored, silky blouse underneath. It’s both conservative and trendy. I do not have a backpack, not even a leather one, but rather a brief case (the one my mom gave me when I graduated from college with my initials on the side).

I find myself screaming on the phone, “I got the job. 400k and they rent me an apartment on the park for cheap. Stock options, a yearly bonus, full benefits, and 3 weeks of vacation. Yeah, I tried for 4 but they wouldn’t budge. I start in 2 weeks, enough time to pack the house. My official title is Director of Competency Mapping for Intel’s Customer Hardware Engineers.”

The CLACKING again grabs my attention. I can hear through the phone my husband trying to scream over the noise, “That’s great. I am thinking that I can come visit you about every 6 weeks, well except for ski season when the big races happen.”

It’s then that I wake up … not in the manner I do if I am thirsty, hungry, or need to use the bathroom. But instead, I am WIDE awake. I peer around the dark room and try to see if I can spot the clothes that I took off before I went to bed. I spy my green Oregon leather clogs, the ones I wear every morning during warm months to walk the dog and get coffee. I look further around the room and realize that I am in Oregon which means I will not find the sharp dark suit or the peach-colored silky blouse.

It’s then that I realize I should stop reading the news before I go to bed: articles about the dismal global economy including charts that go in the wrong direction and the pointless discussion on if we are/were/going to be in a recession. These thoughts mean cruel girl shoes on hard cement sidewalks, a tiny apartment in New York, and a job title that screams, “TEDIOUS BORING MEETINGS” and “CONSTANT REORGs.”

I crawl back in bend and am thankful for my life in Oregon.