This is an account of a dream I had last week:
I’m sitting behind my desk in my office, leaning back in a leather chair, my headset arched over my head. I pick up the yellow pages, close my eyes, open it to a random page and smack my finger down somewhere on the left margin. I open my eyes and dial the number that my index finger touches:
“Hello, this is Michael McDougan, president and sole decision maker at Enterprise Investment, how may I help you?” The man answers.
I clear my throat and say, “Hello sir, my name is Ross Gordon, I’m calling with—”
“Yes! I’ll take 100”
I take out my notebook and grab a Dr. Grip pen and open the notebook only to find Michael McDougan’s contact info neatly written in blue ink.
Just as I begin to celebrate with a Cuban cigar, my office starts looking blurry. Suddenly darkness. But a familiar darkness.
I roll over and look at my alarm clock. It’s 3am. The bright green light irritates my still dilated pupils. As I gain awareness of my whereabouts, I realize that I’ve been had by my subconscious yet again. I feel so foolish. I should have caught on when I saw the Dr. Grip pen. My office budget strictly limits us to Bic PenMates.
But as I lay in bed with the remnants of excitement still keeping me from sleep, I begin to think about my dreams. The previous week I dreamed that I got promoted, tonight night I dreamed of the cold-call from heaven. The more I think, the more I realize that most of my dreams contain very similar elements: my office, my boss, my computer, my phone, my clients, and the fish tank in our office. For some reason dreams with fairies and lottery jackpots and attractive women and me dunking from the free-throw line and one-legged, yodeling midgets with purple hats serving cocktails have all started to dwindle. Now everything is work related.
After a week of self-performed psychotherapy, I am doing slightly better. I try and reminisc about my pre-work dreams for 15 minutes before bed. Now my dream-version boss sometimes wears a purple hat and serves me a cocktail. But not much else has changed. And I’m not sure it ever will. But maybe that’s what being a working adult is all about. Maybe fun dreams with skydiving and world-saving belong to kids. Or maybe I’m just becoming a square at a faster rate than average. But at least my nightmares are still exciting. I dread the night when I show up to a budget meeting in tighty-whities.