“Odd” in the sense that they are pretty fucking weird. I know that dreams are, in general, the way your brain attempts to make sense of things happening in real life. But, I keep having pregnancy dreams. And they really need to stop.
I remember the first was not too long ago. I was heavily in my second or third trimester, belly swollen beyond belief. I can’t remember who my dream baby’s daddy was or if my dream self even knew. My mother was with me; she kept dragging me around places like the grocery store. I was preggo, y’all. I’m not implying pregnant women can’t run errands or drive or do simple daily tasks, but my dream self wasn’t having it.
Contrary to popular belief about the young black woman, I’ve never been pregnant. I’ve never gotten pregnant either. It’s a rather large concern of mine so I take all necessary precautions before engaging in sexual activity. It’s not to say I haven’t thrown caution to the wind once or twice and rawdogged it; but I have no shame in admitting that I waltzed into a CVS pharmacy and shelled out upwards of $50 for Plan B, an emergency contraceptive in the United States. $50. Ugh. American values… Either way, if I had even an inkling, I didn’t wait around to see. I nipped that shit in the bud within 72 hours.
So, after last night, and having my second pregnant dream, I’m getting a bit concerned that my dream self is trying to tell me something. I don’t think it’s “have a child” but perhaps something is growing inside me. I just must figure out what these metaphors are!
I had a terrible night of tossing and turning. I dreamt that I was back in Italy in the lovely building that I stayed at in Rome (photos to come!). Except, it was sinister. There was, in real life, this narrow elevator that was classic and old. It had a gate and a see-through door that you had to close tightly before the elevator would operate. Sometimes, we wouldn’t close the gate correctly so folks on the bottom entry floor would buzz us on the 6th floor and intercom, asking us to close the elevator so it could be used. No big deal, right? My scumbag brain decides to make me have a dream where I let serial killers inside the building. It was night and I had on pajamas and for somet reason I rode the elevator down to let the folks in (in real life, you didn’t have to do that).
Sigh. Why can’t I have nice, pleasant dreams? Why can’t my dreams be sweet like an Annie Lennox song? Boo.