My life has become science fiction.
Will I become one of those woo woo people who sit up all night trolling the net, bleary eyed, eating hot and spicy cheetos with crumbs dribbling from my chin jamming my keyboard?
Am I going to turn into the crazy lady who finds hidden meaning from pigeon poo rainbows in mud puddles?
It all began the other morning when my spouse told me about his dream.
“Au contraire”, saith me, that was MY dream.
Type A control freaks develop a major anxiety attack if they believe someone is hijacking their dream.
We have been married since god was a girl and finish each others sentences. This is a source of great frustration to both of us.
He perceives it as rudeness on my part not to wait until he finishes whatever he is saying.
I perceive it as sparing him the effort to say something I already know he is going to say.
The dreams were almost identical in subject matter, except his had more detail. I prefer to get to the bottom line faster even in my dreams.
We have some shared telepathic experiences. I can hear a tune in my head and soon thereafter, he will start to either whistle or hum the same tune. The dream thing had me flummoxed so I did a bit of internet research.
I discovered there are very strange people in the universe. While I admit to a certain degree of weird I do have boundaries.
One site offers a meet and greet where one can hook up with other woo woo people to see if they will have the same dream. This is worse than phone sex.
I will go to any length to avoid someone I can’t stand. No way am I going to take a chance on running into them in a dream.
On another site, a woman went into detail about a shared dream that included her entire family. Some things should remain private and there is a case to be made for oversharing with family.
I don’t think my spouse was pleased that I shared his dream. He is concerned his life long preference for measured words may be at risk and could evolve into putting his foot in his mouth.I do that quite a bit; a consequence of what happens when you’re not supposed to say that.
I guess that explains the silver bullet and garlic pod I discovered under his pillow.