Wanted: Dream Interpreter

Since I was a kid, I have had several recurring dreams. When I was younger they were the expected ones: trying to run from boogeymen and finding myself unable to move, or showing up in school sans acceptable social garments.

Now that I'm a ripe old 27, my dreams have taken on more adult fears. I dream I'm standing at the alter (or worse, at my own wedding reception), in the process of getting married to (or having just married) someone I either don't know or don't like very much. I wouldn't need my degree in psychology to diagnose the intimacy and commitment issues there. And even though I've been out of school for almost five years now, I still have that dream where it's mid-terms or finals, and I remember suddenly that I'd signed up for a class I'd completely forgotten to attend all semester.

I expect those types of dreams. Even the occasional tornado dream isn't too unusual, given where I live.

What I cannot figure out is why at 27, my brain insists on giving me dreams about being chased by a T-rex.

Every. Damn. Night.

Perhaps Jurassic Park scarred me for life. I loved that movie (and can, in fact, recite it verbatim), and I'll even admit to taking a gleeful, fiendish sort of delight in the sequels. C'mon--dinosaurs!

But apparently my brain doesn't think watching is enough. Oh no--my brain, being the ultimate diva, has decided we need to be cast in the fourth movie: Dinosaurs at Grandma's House. Mind you, that's just one possible title. We're also considering Dinosaurs at the Airport, Dinosaurs at Work, and the less-popular Dinosaurs in an Ambiguous and Indeterminate Location which May or May Not Resemble Any Known Reality.

What's more alarming is how seriously I take these dreams. In Dinosaurs at the Random River, I found myself hiding from one of the hulking monsters beneath the edge of the riverbank, thinking to myself, "His visual acuity is based on movement, so I might be all right if I stay still. Of course, he has the largest olfactory cavity per his brain size of any creature save the turkey vulture! Can he smell me? Did I shower yesterday?!"

When your subconscious brain begins trying to determine the relative odor-eliminating properties of fictional riverbank clay, it's clearly not been given enough to occupy its time.

I will say one thing. Whatever time my brain has devoted into making these dreams realistic and terrifying during the chase, it needs to make sure to wake me up, or pop another re-run into the dream reel, because it clearly has no idea what to do when the T-rex actually catches me. Sometimes it tries to eat me, sure. But sometimes it simply stands there looking at me askance. On one memorable occasion, it took me back to a relatively nice home in New England, and I was left with the impression that I'd been hired to perform either a secretarial or janitorial function of some sort.

What I'm saying is, enough is enough. Let's either get eaten, or think of something else to chase us around. A smaller, harmless breed of dinosaur, perhaps. Or maybe Robert Downey Jr.