Interpretation Please?

I have often thought of getting my hands on one of those dream interpretation books that alphabetically lists the common elements of our dreams and what they could possibly symbolize. Although I don't necessarily subscribe to the mystical or prominently display Dream Catchers from the rear-view mirror of the minivan, I am convinced of their psychological significance.

During a darker period of my life, I finally broke down, admitting to myself that I needed counseling. A good shrink is hard to find right off the bat, and it's imperative you begin with one you are comfortable with, otherwise, it's likely you'll never go back. I must warn you against my method for making such crucial decisions. Closing your eyes, raising your hand in the air, and then going with whatever selection your finger happens to land on.

That said, I will also say, for as unscientific as this method may sound, it's always worked out pretty well for me, and my choice for a counselor was no exception. Along with being a good listener (imagine that), and astutely insightful, my counselor used dream journals effectively. He first asked me to write down my dreams over the course of a month for later discussion. I thought it a little hokey, but when we began talking about the images and details I was instantly fascinated with the creative antics of my subconscious.

For example, a dream about my ride in a skyscraper's elevator that wouldn't stop at the top floor, but instead shoots straight through the roof actually symbolized the sexual frustration of my first marriage. And that one about punching my old boss who was wearing a black uni-tard and offering me a cup of tea from a sterling silver platter represented my distrust of management despite the success I was enjoying while working there. Hmmm?

It made sense to me, and besides, it's better than being crazy. After a while I got to where I could pick out things on my own, and even provide analysis for some of my friends from time to time. Usually, I wasn't too far off either. I learned to pay attention to my dreams and look out for warning signs that might indicate some form of unhealthiness in my life.

So, when I had this dream the other night I was completely at a loss for what it was telling me, and I wished I had one of the those books to figure it out.

First, I find myself on a senior citizen's country retreat exclusively for women - and yes, I'm pretty sure I was a white-haired, old lady who was peddling a bike down a scenic trail with the other grandmas, thankful my Depends undergarment provided some additional padding to my posterior for the long ride.

Suddenly, and without a star-wipe, or fade-out/fade-in graphic transition effect, I am at my parents' house engaged in mortal combat with Sylar, the main villain from the NBC television show, Heroes. We both are using our special powers to pummel the other until Sylar diffuses through the floor of mom and dad's bedroom escaping into the basement. I follow, but he's gone. I walk outside and right into another sequence.

I'm on tour with Jeff Foxworthy and we're on stage in some honky-tonk, God only knows where. Once we finish our set together, I take my place as a back-up singer for the country band, Diamond Rio (people, I haven't listen to country music, on purpose anyway, for over six years, so, like, what the...). The band and I put on a rousing performance and it's time for me to walk off the stage. I'm now supposed to meet some overweight Texas oil barron and his big-haired wife and sweet daughter at the bar. When I look down to see where I'm walking I realize I'm dressed like Col. Sanders of Kentucky Fried Chicken fame.


While I'm trying to find the number to my old shrink, I am completely open to your interpretations no matter how wild they may be. Or if you'd like, I invite you to share one of your own.