They say every dream has a meaning, and not necessarily an obvious one. I’m not sure I want to know what mine mean . . . they’re that weird.

If you’ve been following me for a while, you know I write a lot about Russia, both past and present. (I haven’t learned to forecast the future yet.) So it would seem natural for me to dream about the time I spent there years ago, or the people I knew in Moscow back in the ‘90s, or being chased by Vladimir Putin through the dark forest or across a snowy tundra. But I don’t.

I do dream a lot about Nazis, though. Evil-looking, gun-toting, goose-stepping, 1940s Gestapo types, who for some reason are pursuing me from nook to cranny, hell bent on killing me. And each time I think I’ve found a good hiding place, here they come again. They never do catch me, but can anyone tell me what they’re doing in my dreams? Could it simply be a craving for sauerbraten?

Happily, the Nazis don’t visit often. But I do rack up a lot of miles while I’m sleeping — driving and driving and driving. A lot of the time I’m searching for the right road (okay, that one’s pretty obvious), but just as often I know where I’m going and other cars keep getting in my way, though I always find my way around them. Or it starts snowing and the road is slippery. Or I’ve parked the car somewhere and when I go back for it, I can’t find it. I spend a lot of time running up and down the ramps in parking garages too. Driving, driving, driving . . . running, running, running . . . and getting nowhere.

Actually, this one is starting to sound more like my life, except that in the dreams I’m usually younger and more able-bodied.

I have a confession to make: I was, for most of my adult life, a bona fide shopaholic. I loved going to the big malls, wandering from store to store, roaming through displays of things I would never in a million years have any use for. But especially at the change of seasons, there were the newest fashions. Clothes for work, clothes for play, clothes for the White House dinner I would never be invited to. Clothes for the next cruise. Shoes. Purses. Lingerie. Pajamas. Jewelry. I loved it all.

I don’t do that anymore. At my stage of life — old and retired — I have no need for all those beautiful things. And nowhere to put them anyway, since the downsizing. Besides that, I’m not sure I would survive an entire day of shlepping through a three-story mall complex, complete with food court, gigantic atrium, and multiplex movie theater.

So I dream about it instead. Really. I can’t count the number of times my sister (in reality, gone these past seven years) and I hit the shops, try on clothes, argue over which one is going to get the jacket we’ve both fallen in love with. Those dreams are so real that when I wake up, I have to check to be sure my credit card is still in my wallet and my sister hasn’t miraculously come back to life. (Yes, it is, and no, she hasn’t.)

And then there are the nighttime fantasies where I’m in a theater, and I’m called upon to perform. Lots of luck with that one! I guess that’s just the latent extrovert trying to escape from somewhere deep down inside; but trust me — it’s never going to happen. I have no musical talent, and the last time I acted in anything was in an office Christmas review when I played the part of a cleaning lady singing about the Sherman Antitrust Act. Don’t ask — it was a law firm and the script was written by lawyers, so it’s not going to make sense. All I remember is that I had to have several drinks before screwing up the courage to go onstage. They said I did well, which is what counts, I guess. And I recall the broom.

So I fantasize about performing in my sleep, and the applause is truly uplifting. It also usually wakes me up, which is irritating because then I have to make one of those nocturnal trips to the w.c.

You’ve probably noticed that these have all been dreams built on repeated themes. That in itself must mean something, but I haven’t a clue as to what it might be. There are others that keep cropping up — looking at new houses and apartments, cats and dogs that talk to me, trying to find an unoccupied ladies’ room, and babies that for some reason have been left in my care.

But now and then there will be an excruciatingly detailed, very mixed-up, totally incomprehensible dream that leaves me scratching my head and saying

when I finally wake up. Like the one the other night that included the following:

— A date with a man I sort of liked but wasn’t sure of;

— Going to a party in the wealthy D.C. suburb of Potomac, Maryland;

— Wearing a beautiful, slinky, sparkly, rose-colored evening gown with bare shoulders and “spaghetti” straps;

— Being tall and slim and much younger (that’s how I knew it was a dream);

— Riding in the man’s Lincoln Continental;

— Arriving at the restaurant, where the elevators kept closing before we could get into them;

— Finally being seated with several other people I didn’t know;

— Everyone chipping in for the dinner with cash, but not being allowed to contribute my share;

— Going to the ladies’ room with my sister, who somehow suddenly showed up; and finally

— Riding a different elevator to . . . wait for it . . .

You knew there had to be a garage in there somewhere, didn’t you?

So . . . anybody make sense out of any of that? I’d see a shrink, but I’m scared to death of the diagnosis. I’m also a little afraid to fall asleep at night. But at least my nocturnal life isn’t boring.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
9/21/24