The Poncho, however, is a Mystery

I started to do an entry last week on dreams in honor of Martin Luther King Jr.'s birthday, so I fully intended to continue in that vein today.  I had the idea to discuss folks' dreams in general.  Aspirations, goals, ambitions, heart's desires, and the like.  This entry, however, took on a life of its own, as you will see here.


Last night, I had a dream.  I dreamt I was walking along in a semi-outdoor outlet mall (at least I think it was an outlet mall).  When I began to notice a faint draught coming from the direction of my nether regions, I looked down to discover, to my horror, that I was completely unclothed.  That's right.  Not even naked, but neh-ked, as we say in Tejas.  Not a stitch.  I spent the rest of the dream trying, unsuccessfully I might add, to find clothing to cover myself.  I seem to remember trying on some sort of weird red poncho thing that had several different possible configurations, which the faceless salesperson in my dream (I was at an outlet mall) kept trying to show me.  Strange that he/she never seemed to notice my lack of attire.  I awoke this morning, relieved to notice that it had been only a dream.  Sometimes those things seem so real.


Curiosity provoked me to look up elements of the dream online.  Considering today is my day off from the restaurant, I actually had a little time on my hands - although I do feel the stack of papers I was trying to organize this week eyeing the back of my head maliciously as they lie, neglected, on the dining table behind me at the moment.  I boldly say, "Wait your turn 'papers-I-should-probably-shred'!" and now return to my narrative.  I found a really interesting dream interpretation website, originally to look up the Naked Dream, but I found a host of other elements dreams can supposedly infer regarding your current subconscious state.  According to the website, dreams where your wardrobe is not merely malfunctioning, but is in fact, nonexistent, indicates:


 "vulnerability or feelings of shamefulness. You may be hiding something and are afraid that others can see right through you. Metaphorically, clothes are a means of concealment. Depending on the type of clothes you wear, you can hide your identity or be someone else. But without them, everything is hanging out for all to see. You are exposed and left without any defenses. Thus your naked dream may be telling you that you are trying to be something that you really are not. Or you are fearful of being ridiculed and disgraced. Such anxieties are elevated especially in situations where you are trying to impress others ... You may be expressing fears or apprehension in revealing your true feelings in such situations."

Well, no shocker there, really.  Actors are constantly feeling vulnerable.  Casting directors, agents, you name it, they judge it!  In my chosen field (my real one, not the waiting tables one), when am I NOT trying to impress someone?  I know, I know.  I should be thinking of casting folk more as "wanting me to do well" or as some sort of benevolent objective observers.  It is sometimes difficult to do that, however, when all I hear them say is "Thank you.  Next..."

Anyway, next I looked up the color red, for the red poncho, and that means I am feeling tired and lethargic.  Coincidentally, seeing a redhead in your dream, which I am by the way, means you need more "spontaneity and vitality in your life."  I didn't actually see myself, though, so maybe I'm already spontaneous and vital enough.  With all that spunk, no wonder I'm so tired.

Next, I looked up the outlet mall.  Dreaming of a mall "represents your attempts in making a favorable impression on someone. The mall is also symbolic of materialism and the need to keep up with the trends, fads, and/or the latest technology."  Probably a relic of the jealousy I'm harboring since my husband purchased the new iPhone 4S.  Oh yeah - and the favorable impression thing.

They didn't have a meaning for the poncho.

As I mulled all this over, I considered the fact that I have often had these types of dreams in my life.  Usually it's during tech week of a show (or the week before opening for the non-theatre reader)  This is the week when everything (lights, sound, costumes, etc) is coming together.  Thus, it's falling apart at the same time.  It's during that week that the actor begins to wonder, "Where did all that great work during rehearsal go?"  And. "Why in Heavens did they cast me in this?  Better yet, why did I think I could do it?"  It is also of this week that one of my professors in grad school said, "Just remember that you're right where you should be."  Meaning, don't worry about those feelings of inadequacy, the bouts of anxiety, and in my case, the naked dreams. Everything will come together in the end.  Acknowledge that those things will always happen during tech week, but the fear will go away to be replaced by, hopefully, nothing but the world of the character and the play.

So what's happening now?  I'm not in a show.  Not in the middle of tech week.  What's with the naked dream?  Then it hit me. I am embarking on a voyage in hitherto uncharted waters for me.  I have actually spent a lot of time lately on creative pursuits other than my beloved acting.  And it's scary.  Anything new is.  I have no idea what I'm doing or where it will lead me.  I have formal training in a completely different area and none since high school in the other.  But at least I know this.  I do have that well-meaning salesperson and terribly confusing red poncho to help cover me up.  Even if I don't know what it means. 

10:58

I looked at the clock.  10:55 p.m.  Perfect!  "I might be out of here before 11:10 tonight!"  I thought to myself smugly.  All my tables had been cleaned; my charge slips and cash were all in order.  All I had to do was run my "checkout" and I would be a free woman!  At least until the next day when I had to be back.  The balls of my feet, my lower back, and my knees ached, telltale evidence of working two double-shifts in a row.  Tomorrow, however, I only had one shift left, and then (drumroll, please) the much anticipated DAY OFF.  The comfort and ecstasy that accompanied the mere thought of those two tiny words swept over me like the bubbles that would make up the luxuriating bath in which I would be soaking later.

I turned around, facing the grill, which stands right in front of the entrance to our restaurant, to reply to something one of the line cooks had just said to me when I saw Them.  They were running, literally running, through the heavy revolving door and down the stairs that led into our version of a lobby.  At 10:58 p.m., 10:58 p.m. mind you, out of breath and giggling, the two girls, probably no more than 20 years old, rushed up to the hostess' stand and blurted out the words that strike fear into the heart of any waiter or waitress.  "Are you closed yet?"  

The hostess whom they had verbally accosted drew in a sharp breath as the color drained from her face.  She smiled weakly and said softly, "Not yet."  It was true.  We didn't technically close until 11:00.  And it was only 10:58.  The entire front of house staff had frozen where they stood.  I caught a glimpse of one fellow server with a tortilla chip raised halfway to her mouth, motionlessly watching the terrifying scene that was unfolding before her.  I turned back at our ashen-faced hostess, who looked up from the chart she had consulted, which told her which server was next to be seated.  Grabbing two menus from the stack in front of her, she said robotically, "Right this way, ladies," as she led them into the dining room.  Slowly, her eyes swept the room, searching, before they finally rested on, you guessed it, Me.  My heart sank as I let out a long sigh.  I felt a hand clasp my shoulder and give it a squeeze.

"Sorry, girl."  That was all my sympathetic co-worker could get out.  He simply shook his head, trying, not well, to hide his feelings of relief.  "Ah well," I responded, "c'est la vie."

"Huh?"

"Never mind."  I shook my head, forced a smile onto my weary countenance, and turned to face my fate.

"Good evening, ladies.  May I start you with a beverage?"

Two hours later, I left the restaurant, not much the worse for wear, and with a few extra (they did tip me 20% exactly) dollars in my pocket.  Was I exhausted? Yes.  Did I wish I could have left two hours earlier?  Most definitely.  Did I have to be back at the restaurant in nine hours?  You betcha.  Was I happy to have made a little more money than I would have without my late table?  Sure.  What I really gained, though, was the furthering of my conviction that everyone, and I mean EVERYONE, should at some point be required to wait tables at some point in their lifetime.  I left, contented with the prospect that the day may come for those girls when they too will have their own metaphorical 10:58 moment.  To be fair, I just hoped they would get at least the appropriate, albeit metaphorical, 20%.

Wild, Unkempt, and Definitely Without Hairspray

It's been a couple days since I posted, and last night as I was lying in bed, I could think of a hundred topics I wanted to tackle.  Well, maybe "a hundred" is exaggerating a bit, but hey...what's life without a few instances of hyberbole?  So it wasn't a hundred, but there definitely were quite a number of things running through my mind.  Isn't it interesting how when I want to go to sleep, I can't help but keep a list flowing through my brain like the credits at the end of a movie, but when I actually want to make time to put a dent in said "list," I can't think of a thing that I thought I was thinking of before?  Confusing?  It sounded good in my head anyway.


All that to finally get to the point, which is, I discovered something about myself today.  I, gentle reader, am in fact a bit of .... a rebel.  I know.  It's difficult to believe that someone so kind, so sweet, so seemingly "girl next door" could be rebellious against authority, but it's true.  Case in point, the restaurant where I work is quite strict in regards to attire, particularly accessories and hairstyles.  Our earrings cannot dangle or be larger than a dime.  Our nail polish must be clear or natural looking.  Our flyaway hairs must be tamed into submission with hair spray, and the mass of hair itself must be pulled back into a bun, braid, or ponytail that sports an elastic band for every two inch segment.  Not to mention bangs.  Bangs must be pulled back with a bobby pin or barrette of some sort so as not to fall flirtatiously into our eyes.  In short, we must try to look as much as possible like the ladies in Robert Palmer's "Addicted to Love" video from the 80s (except for the makeup - way too risque for the business lunch set).  I, however, do my best to go rogue whenever possible.  My red locks shun the barrette with which the Man tries to subdue them.  Sometimes, I pull hair out in loose tendrils just to see how much I can get away with.  I wear jewel-toned shiny earrings (no bigger than a dime, mind you), but they do hang down a fraction of an inch beneath my chubby earlobes (fodder for another story entirely on another day perhaps).  I refuse to shine my non-slip waiter shoes.  And sometimes, if I'm feeling really feisty, I wear socks with stripes at the top.  To be fair, the striped part is hidden under my pants, which I hemmed myself by the way, and which fall half an inch longer than management would like.  But that's just the kind of girl I am, ladies and gentlemen.  I answer to no one.  I am an autonomous entity that goes it alone. Wild, unkempt, and definitely without hairspray.

What I'm Trying to Keep in Mind Today

"Don't be discouraged by a failure.  It can be a positive experience.  Failure is, in a sense, the highway to success, inasmuch as every discovery of what is false leads us to seek earnestly after what is true, and every fresh experience points out some form of error which we shall afterwards carefully avoid."


John Keats


"Many of life's failures are people who did not realize how close they were to success when they gave up."


Thomas A. Edison




I love this site as it has a quote for every occasion.


http://www.quotationspage.com/

The Middle of the Cycle

Mr. Smith was a regular at the restaurant.  Every Saturday and Sunday, he would come down the stairs from the street, using not only his well-worn cane for support, but also the arm of some well-meaning patron or restaurant employee.  She looked up from the stack of linens she had been folding and saw him, slowly making his way to the hostess stand where he would be greeted with the usual warmth and, hopefully unbeknownst to him, hidden pity that always accompanied the encounters between the employees of the restaurant and the old man.  Immediately, she had gone to help him to the most convenient table for him to reach, which, today, happened to be in her section.  She offered him the use of her arm, and he accepted it.  This was the first time in the last few months she had been the one to help him to his table, so she was caught completely unawares when the older gentleman's hand clamped down on her like a vice grip.  The seeming desperation of his grasp alerted her even more than his ragged appearance had as to the rapid deterioration of his health.  She felt the strong burn of tears beginning behind her eyes, as much due to the pain of his fingers digging into her skin as to the realization that the gentle man beside her was becoming more and more feeble.  It was heartbreaking to see someone become so frail right before her eyes week after week.  How odd that cycle was that began a person's life completely weak and dependent on others to care for him and seemed to end the exact same way.  How humiliating to have grown in knowledge and autonomy throughout one's life, only to near the end of it clinging to some waitress' arm, literally shuffling along, making the strongest physical effort possible just to make it to a chair twenty feet away.  Was this the normal progression?


As she smiled falsely, trying her best to alter her feelings of pity into a more suitable feeling of sympathy, which tends to sound more dignifying in nature, she thought of her grandfather.  He had passed away the previous year due to complications with a stroke, which had completely addled his mind.  In fact, the doctor had stated an appropriate way to describe what the clot had done to her grandfather's brain.  The tiny pinprick of gathered platelets had shattered it.  The briefest of moments had stolen his memories, his awareness, his cleverness, his sense of humor - his dignity.  It was not unusual to visit him in the nursing home the family had placed him in afterward only to find him completely unaware of who anyone was, including himself.  Gone were the days of games of checkers, which he never let her win, teaching her that life doesn't just hand you things; the long stories of his childhood; the friendly teasing; and the constant reminders of how proud he always was of her.  Then it hit her, as she helped Mr. Smith slide into his seat.  She may not have a film in the works, or a role in a Broadway show.  She may have a Masters and yet still be waiting tables in her thirties.  But at least she had that.  Her family.  Not many people had a family like hers, one in which every member was always ready to say, "I love you, and I'm proud of you."  Yes, they had their dysfunction, like every family, but they also had love.  And they had each other.  And Grandpa.

Mulch

Fridays are my days off with the Hubby, and today we spent a good majority of our time taking down our Christmas ornaments.  The day after Christmas always seems so anticlimactic, so we generally leave up as much holiday cheer as we can for as long as possible, at least until right before it stops being attributed to a desire to extend the good will of the season and changes to just being too damn lazy to clean up after ourselves.


We actually stopped faithfully watering the Tree a few days ago, so the branches were brittle, and the poor tree had drooped into some semblance of the Wicked Witch of the West melting into oblivion.  Because of the thing's dehydration, it was somewhat like finding a needle in a haystack trying to locate all of the ornaments that had once adorned our mighty balsam.  The Tree had obviously begun to curl its branches in on itself in the hopes of holding the ornaments for ransom in exchange for the resurgence of its water supply.  I, however, am stealthy and quick, with catlike reflexes, and was able to retrieve our decorations and see them safely back into their boxes, there to hibernate for another year until the holiday frivolities should begin again.  The Tree resisted in a final hurrah as Hubby attempted to haul it down to the curb where it will be picked up and unceremoniously recycled into mulch (no wonder it was putting up such a fight now that I think about it).  The aforementioned hurrah consisted of the dry limbs shooting out needles like a porcupine does quills as they reached out in vain, trying to catch hold of the walls of our narrow stairwell all the while soaking my poor husband in sticky sap.


After the battle was over, I looked around at the aftermath the struggle had left behind.  The dead needles littering the floor, and every other flat surface in our apartment.  The small pinpricks of blood on my hands and bare feet, remnants of my ornament recovery work.  The host of Christmas boxes, packed and ready to be put away.  And I wondered what the scene will look like next year.  Will it be here?  In this apartment?  Will it still be the just two of us (and our oft disgruntled beagle)?  How will our lives be different?  Who knows?  I can only hope that I embrace any change that may occur with a little more grace than a dried-up Balsam, going on to the next chapter kicking and screaming.  Of course, who knows how I might act in the face of the proverbial wood-chipper?  Only time will tell.

Most Likely to...

Not much happened at the restaurant yesterday.  The same people came and got the same spots on the hierarchy of charts.  The thing that tells us what tables we will be serving, and, incidentally, what we’re worth to the company (or at least to our direct managers).  Needless to say, I stayed consistent with my two-tops.  It reminds me a bit of those “Favorite” lists they come up with in High School.  You know the ones.  Most Beautiful, Most Handsome, Most Likely to Succeed, Funniest, Most Likely to end up on America’s Most Wanted, etc.  My most memorable brush with this age old tradition was when I was actually nominated my senior year for Prettiest Eyes.  It came as quite a shock since I didn’t realize that my green eyes were really that exotic, and no one had ever mentioned them before.  I will say it was definitely a boost for my nerdy, carrot-topped, chubby self-esteem.  It was a bit of beauty validation after having just spent the last two and a half years in braces fighting acne and (unbeknownst to me at the time) terrible, terrible bangs.  


I will never forget a football player strutting past me in the usual “pimp limp” that, for reasons I will never fully comprehend, was a necessary trademark of our fighting Lions in blue and white.  As he passed, he glanced my way, smiled, and murmured, “Hey, pretty eyes.”  A) He had never spoken to me before in my life, and B) was I really blushing?  How embarrassing!  How cliché could you get!  Yet….it was effective.  I’m pretty sure I even let out the teenage girl giggle, an act to which I was certain my wise-beyond-my-years, sophisticated, 17 year old self had never succumbed before.  


The day came for the all-school assembly in which the “Favorites” were announced.  I had seen my competition (gawked at them in fact, sizing up their less worthy irises) and felt pretty good about my chances.  Granted, I had also been nominated as Most Likely to Succeed, but that was child’s play compared to the prestige the other nomination promised.  Finally, my category was called; I waited with baited breath, my prepared acceptance speech swimming behind my noteworthy eyes.  Then…..I lost.  My name was not called.  The girl whose name was called was a girl who wore contacts.  Colored contacts!  And not even normal colored contacts.  They were purple!  I lost the title of Prettiest Eyes to a girl with purple contacts!  Really?  As I sat there, too deflated to move, I realized something that day.  You may have pretty eyes, but they need to be artificial to be the prettiest.  Now, however, it dawns on me that the reason I did not win in my category that day (I didn’t get Most Likely to Succeed either) was because they didn’t have the right category listed, the one I would have been a shoe-in to win.  Most Likely to Have the Feminine Balls to Marry a Hot, Intelligent Man and Move to New York to Wait Tables for Unappreciative Bosses and Patrons While Pursuing Her Real Dreams.  Put that in your contacts and look through it, pretty eyes!