Were this a private diary that I could stash in a drawer, I’d spill out tales of personal woe—many involving work—without a second thought. But this is a public space, a digital soapbox, so I exercise restraint. Because, ultimately, having a job is a good thing… mostly.
It’s a shame, though, because some of my office stories could genuinely make you laugh. And coming off a vacation, even I find humor in them. Ah, the magic of a vacation! Skin clears, eyes brighten, smiles come easier. The mundane takes on a fresh glow, and the metaphorical noose around your neck loosens a little. Suddenly, life has perspective, and everything feels manageable.
Another side effect of vacation is that my dreams intensify. When there’s no alarm, no nagging to-dos, no immediate tasks upon waking, dreams become vivid movies with elaborate, almost Byzantine, storylines. I awake still absorbed with the drama, comedy, or tragedy that my mind just staged. It haunts me for hours.
“So I had this dream last night,” I’ll begin telling Mr. P over breakfast.
“Again?” he says in disbelief.
Then the vacation ends and I return to work. Gradually, my nighttime entertainment peters out. Dreams are neither good nor bad, they’re just vague impressions of a locality or an object that are forgotten as soon as my feet hit the floor.
Recently I had a very realistic dream: I’m in the basement of my office building, waiting for the elevator. I had just picked up a lunch from Cosi (a large lentil soup) and I’m nibbling on the accompanying piece of Cosi flatbread. Because it’s lunchtime, the elevator is taking a long time. I can hear it “ding” several floors above the the basement, and loud voices funnel down the shaft to me. They are the familiar voices of men who I have known for 7 years. The elevator stops again on the lobby level, and the voices grow louder.
One voice raises above the din of male hooting: “Did you see how her tits were flapping around!” which rouses other snippets of vulgar exaltation. The elevator door opens and I am staring at the occupants of the elevator, whose faces register surprise and embarrassment. “Did you hear that?” one asks me as they file out sheepishly. I say nothing but cannot stop smiling in abject horror at having heard my colleagues objectify a woman with tawdry slang on the elevator, which everyone knows leaks sound like an earbud.
But, like I said, it was only a dream. (And if it weren’t, would I really be writing about it?)
Returning to work, I find myself wondering: is it the dreams that reveal a deeper truth or just my mind playing tricks on me, trying to inject a bit of absurdity back into the daily grind? Either way, for now, I’ll take the ambiguity. It’s easier to navigate than reality sometimes.
