"Welcome to My Nightmare"

It's not often that I share certain things about myself with others.  My chronic synesthesia involving numbers, my need to eat only one thing on my plate at a time, etc. I usually keep under lock and key.  In this same catagory falls my dreams.  Not dreams as in aspirations, goals, delusions--  those I share with anyone who will listen!  I mean the things that take place in my head once I fall asleep.

Is it conincidence, then, that just 2 days ago I shared what might be called a recurring nightmare?  The Boyfriend and I were fishing under and inbetween the Bayway and the Causeway, so I broke down and told him of the dream I have in which I am alone straddling a piece of concrete roadway, much higher in the sky than is comfortable, and I am trying my best to scale down it's hill without fallng into the murky water below.  And, after having exposed the dream to the light of day, I felt much better.  Even a little silly hearing the words coming out of my mouth.  I share this with you based on the notion that none of you have the time or inclination to properly interpret what this might mean.

Fast forward to this morning.  For the second time in as many weeks, the bus taking The Professionals and me from the Eastern Shore to Mobile became disabled before reaching Bienville Square.  Only this time, it came to a stop atop the Cochran Bridge.  A moment of silence for you to let that sink in.

Once again, and with greater irritation, The Professionals discussed their options.  Several, again, called friends, but this time none left the bus (seeing as there was no smoke this time, the greater risk would certainly be to stand outside, vulnerable at such a height.)  We watched anxiously as each passenger to have found a ride gingerly stepped off the bus, inched around the portruding door while leaning over the edge of the bridge before heading in front of the bus to the car that had come to their rescue.  After a call to a friend, it was my turn.  I have no recollection of how it happened, but I somehow made it around the door, in front of the bus, and into my friend Ritchie's car.  One of the scariest moments I can recall.  The stuff psychiatrist's couches are made for.

Fortunately, it all happened so fast that before I knew it, I was safe and sound.
Also, fortunately, my friend Ritchie's office building was close to my city bus stop, AND it had a ladies room.  A welcomed sight since I'd already had 2 cups of coffee and my 32 oz homemade smoothie.

As proof that there is a God, the city bus arrived on schedule, but since it was an hour later than the one I usually take there was a whole new cast of characters.  I looked around and tried to pick out the regulars from the ones who were only on the bus for today.  A man obviously strung out on something, a woman frail as she was pale, with an abundance of eyeliner to make up for her lack of blush, and a no nonsense woman busy with a cross word puzzle, occasionally meeting my gaze then rolling her eyes at the others around us. 

And then, out of nowhere, it came.  A sound/noise totally unexpected.  A man in the back of the bus was singing.  First low, then a bit louder.  I looked around, and no one but me seemed surprised.  By the time we got to Airport Blvd, a woman had joined in.  I was both annoyed and jealous that I didn't know the words and couldn't join in with the alto part!

All to soon the bus reached my stop and I once again faced the reality of my workday.

Sweet dreams are made of this?  Who am I to disagree...