I dreamt I sat with a woman in an office. She was like a doctor or a social worker or some weird combination of the two. She’d asked me to bring my whole wardrobe for her to evaluate but I had so many clothes that I only brought maybe a third. I thought it was a crazy request anyway.
She chided me for not bringing everything.
The clothes I’d brought were green, brown, and white florals of large loose tops and leggings to match each one, all neatly folded. All really ugly. Not my wardrobe as usual that’s for sure!
I asked her why she needed to see my wardrobe in the first place. She said, “Just so that your insurance will cover you for them when you lose them all at sea.”
I said, “Excuse me?”
“The water table is RISING, Dearie,” she told me rather impatiently as though explaining it to some clueless idiot for the umpteenth time and getting tired of repeating herself… though I certainly couldn’t recall her having told me this before.
“And?” I asked, not minding that my question would fully exasperate her.
She slapped a stack of files down hard on her desk and said, “Damn it! We’ve been through this already! Don’t you get it? The whole west coast will slide under the sea! You will lose your wardrobe. You want it covered, don’t you?”
Personally, I can think of much worse things to lose that cannot in any way be covered by insurance but, hey, if she wanted to rant, I supposed it was her prerogative. So I just nodded like she was speaking perfect sense.
I expected her to at least look at the clothing I’d brought, tediously packed in boxes and brought from my car trunk to a row of chairs in her office, but she didn’t. Just a quick glance in that general direction as if merely to assure herself that I did, in fact, own a wardrobe. I was thoroughly irritated with her and she with me.
I’m with the members of my student dance troupe and the professional troupe awaiting dance class to begin on the sidelines of a dance studio where a jazz class is going on. Apparently, the studio was double-book but none of us are willing to surrender to the other class. But we’re still waiting for Rishi to come and straighten things out.
One by one, even though it’s crowded and co-ed besides, we just slip into the ranks of the jazz dancers and just learn what they’re learning. They willingly accommodate us.
There’s pounding rain on the roof as though the studio were somehow positioned beneath Niagara Falls.
The roof starts leaking, streamers of water drenching us as we dance, our feet slapping down into puddles as we step and spin and take arbitrarily graceful and ferocious poses, laughing at each other’s sodden appearances: wet hair, wet costumes, wet veils… Water droplets clinging to eye-lashes, droplets falling from the tips of noses.
The roof creaks and sighs. It’s going to collapse, so I wake up.