Intermission: Dream, embarrassed at the Post Office

I m going to get a bit intimate in this blog, because I am going to relate a dream I just had the Saturday morning before I wrote this.  Nope, sorry, no sex in it, just a lot of Freud and Jung imagery probably, and hidden messages which I haven't found  yet.  This post isn't about parenting, or patience, or kids in general.  It might be indirectly related to parenting by "delving" into my psyche to see if I am developing fears and phobias which hinder my work.   Is it a persecution complex or the Frye complex of dreaming of being in public in your underwear?  Then again, it s good filler until I get up this magna opus intro on the next problem for Dads as major caregivers.  Read it now, I ll probably get embarrassed that I posted it after a week and take it down. 

From the minute I started reading Kafka, I understood from where he was coming.  Many of his stories were (just) dreams.  The country doctor is the one that always pops to my head as the perfect example. I know this without reading any amount of Kafka analysis because I have the same dreams.  Well, the same structure.  I think everyone does, but most people cant remember their dreams.  Kafka did apparently.  Me too.

Here we go.

I had to go to the post office to do something or other.  Either pick up some mail or pay some bills by sending money through the post.  We can do that here.  I got to the big post office down the street from where I live.  I went in the door and realized I had no shoes on.  I thought to myself, now how could I have gone out the door AND ridden the street car and not known I didn't have my shoes on?  I had some sort of slipper or home soft boot with me, but only one.  So I put it on one foot and stood with that foot over my other non booted, sock foot.  Meanwhile I got a ticket number at the post from the machine and waited for my number to be called on.  The ticket machine wasn't working so well and I got number 55 even though this number didn't seem to be close to any of the numbers coming up, by far.  But I sat down and waited.

It was then that I noticed two more things as I sat in a chair at a desk.  First, the back room of the post office was closed and dark.  They normally do money transactions in one of the rooms.  Maybe it was some holiday, or half holiday and those rooms were closed for the vacation.  The post office did seem a bit sparse on people.

The second thing I noticed to my horror was that I was in my pajamas.  There I was sitting in my Homer Simpson pajama bottoms with my "surf rats" t shirt top.  This was infinitely worse than just forgetting to put on my shoes. I suddenly felt exponentially more embarrassed, scared and self conscious.  I wondered how long it would take my number to be called.  Should I stay or should I go?  Should I get out of here RIGHT NOW and sneak home in my pajamas, taking all the back alleyways of course?  I looked at my ticket number and the numbers that were being called.  I wondered if I could wait on sending this money or if I should do it now while I was here.  How would I feel standing in front of the post woman doing my transactions, paying, IN MY PAJAMAS.  And my Simpsons pajamas to boot.  I thought about it and got more nervous and self conscious sitting there in my night clothes.

Then I looked around again and it seemed that all of the patrons and post people were in some sort of costume also. I racked my brain trying to remember if it was some costume day?  Festival time had just finished, but maybe it was left overs.  About two weeks ago, or maybe a little more, I had watched the carnival parade march down our street.  My littlest girl and I had walked with it for several blocks.  Everyone had been in costume or riding big bikes or walking on stilts.  Maybe they all worked at the post office.  All the people here were in costumes.  There was some lady in a black cape and a big pointed black hat.  Obviously a witch.  I felt like I could blend in a bit better in my Simpson pajamas. "Hey, how do you like my costume?  Pretty fancy eh?"  I made up my mind and decided to scram the post office and forget about paying my bills.

I was getting up from my desk and I was back in my clothes... but with no coat on.  Jeans and a blue old button up shirt.  Cant remember if I had my shoes on or not.  I didn't look.  I wanted to leave this place.   It was haunted. 

I got through the first set of automatic opening sliding doors.  Like many places it had two sets of sliding opening doors, with a tiny interim vestibule between the doors with no purpose whatsoever except maybe to keep the cold or heat out.  I don't know.

 I had gotten through the first set of doors when a big fat guy caught my leg between his two legs in a very tight vice grip and he would not let me go through the second opening doors. I was caught by him in between these two sets of doors.  I started to yell at him to let me go, but he wouldn't.  And the grip he had me in was real tight.  I swung at him with my fist, but he was too far away.  I felt that if I could only hit him with a swing he would be knocked out.  I don't know why I thought that, he was very big and paunchy and had enough fat and also strength and protection to not be knocked out after many punches.  Besides that, none of my swings even came close to his face.  But I kept trying.  Let go of me.  He was so fat, how was it that he was so strong too?  He had my leg in such a tight hold that I couldn't get away.

Finally from inside of the post, inside the other doors, a lady said, give him his plastic back and let him go.  That was the other thing.  The bully had taken a little plastic little... I don't know what it was.  It was something plastic from kitchen ware and he wouldn't give it back to me.  I had to give it to my daughter.  It was hers.  She had gotten it from a supermarket as one of those little kids freebies they give out as promotion.  You spend so much money at the store and get a little ticket and when you have ten tickets, you get the little action figure.  But this little plastic thing... I don't know what it was. It looked like a plastic three ring hole puncher.  The fat bully had taken it from me and wouldn't give it back.

"Give it back" the lady from inside yelled.  But instead of giving that back to me, he gave back my post waiting number 55 ticket which was a stone with the number 55 painted on it set on a stone wrist band.  That was actually very nice art, but it was not what I wanted. I didn't care about my post

number anymore, I wanted the plastic hole punch to give to my daughter.  Give THAT to me, you big fatty and let me go.   The grip on my leg tightened. 

Somehow I got free of him, or maybe he let me go.  I don't think I had my hole puncher with me though.  Either he had not given it back or the situation changed and it was not there anymore and I didn't need to give it to my daughter.  I went outside in a huff and a big black cloud hanging over my head.  It was indeed cold outside and even though I was now in my clothes, I still had no jacket.  I was indignant and crossed the street to wait for the street car to take me back home.

I woke up much more tired than if I had gotten up at 5am and stayed up instead of going back to sleep, when I woke up at 5am.