Well, I had a dream, last night, or this morning to be more exact. Brace yourselves. I was white water rafting (never gonna happen) in some sort of elaborate indoor waterslide-esque setup (umm…) that was large enough to encompass forests, rapids, falls, wildlife, etc. Still with me? Here’s the kicker, I’m in the back of a raft, my entire family (including the “only on holidays” relatives, and “here’s a fluffy puff paint sweatshirt for your 21st birthday” folks) fills the rest of our barely floating boat. But there I am, clinging NOT to the raft itself but to my cat, Alfie, who is fully equipped with a miniature helmet and life vest.
As should have been expected, at the first sign of turbulence Alfie gets flipped out and into the frigid water (you’d think in an indoor arena they’d pay to heat it) and I, like any reasonable person, jump in after him?!?! Just as I got hold of him, about the same time I lost feeling in my limbs and started debating on if I really loved said cat enough to die in a manmade rapids scenario – we were both zapped (yes, zapped… it’s a super technical term used quite often these days) into a sterile room with attendants, prepared to coddle, shampoo, fluff, and dry little Alfie, while I, was tossed a hand towel to see to my own impending case of hypothermia.
Once Alfie was back to good, we were zapped back into the raft, where our raft was suddenly surrounded with a flock of rabid ducks. Luckily I woke up before they launched an attack, relieved to find that there were no ducks in bed with me, only my iphone alarmclock. While I haven’t the slightest idea what any of this crazed symbolism means, I have learned my lesson as far as reading NonFiction Disaster books with wine in bed.