The Thrilling World of My Dreams: A Nightly Spectacle

One day, my Amish friend casually mentioned, "I had a dream I rode a horse!" 

"Oh, that's so nice!" I replied. "I dreamt I was an international Chinese spy working to dismantle a top-secret underground organization bent on world domination." 

She blinked at me, expressionless, the way Amish people do when they are trying to decide if I need prayer or an exorcism. Meanwhile, I had a moment of self-reflection—why are my dreams so ... extra? 

Dreaming in High Definition 

I have always loved dreaming. My dreams are not just little wisps of random nonsense but full-blown, Hollywood-worthy productions. I dream in color, in detail so sharp you’d think my brain had an IMAX chip. They come with full plots, weirdly fascinating characters, and even—get this—tidy endings. It's like my subconscious is a screenwriter who actually bothers to wrap up the storyline instead of just cutting to black in the middle of an action sequence. But that happens sometimes, too. Because not only am I the actor, I’m also the director and producer. 

And, of course, they are hilarious. Way funnier than my waking life. Many times, I wake up wondering, How am I this clever in my sleep, yet awake, I'm as boring as a plain bagel with no cream cheese? It defies logic. 

One of my most recurring and dramatic dream themes is one in which I am an international spy, fluent in Mandarin. I know this because I speak in Mandarin, understand everything being said, and my Chinese co-stars nod approvingly. I am always dressed impeccably—silk robes for secret meetings, a sleek black suit with a ridiculously bright silk tie for undercover missions. You know, standard espionage attire. Because if you’re infiltrating a secret organization, why wouldn’t you accessorize appropriately? 

Another bizarrely specific theme is my ongoing battle to smuggle high-tech spy gadgetry through airport security. I never know exactly what these gadgets do, but I do know they are very important, and the bad guys really want them. My dream self is an expert at casually sneaking them through TSA—sometimes hidden in an innocent-looking package of Ramen Noodles, sometimes disguised as a harmless decorative fan, or sometimes just shoved in my pocket like a moron. 

Oh, the tension! The high stakes! The inevitable moment when I almost get caught, only to somehow charm my way out of the situation with a wink and a casual 狗在厨房里. (Gǒu zài chúfáng lǐ.) 

Not all of my dreams are high-stakes international intrigue. Some are just straight-up humiliating. Like the time I dreamt I was in a boardroom full of coworkers, looking absolutely lovely in a cute little green ruffle-sleeve blouse, when my Spanx suddenly exploded. One second, I was confidently leading a presentation, the next, I was floundering on the table like a blowfish, my little fin arms flailing helplessly at my amorphous side. The entire room stared in horrified silence, until my coworker Andy snarked, "Wow, those things really work!" 

Then there was the dream in which my husband passed away and, instead of leaving me a house, a fortune, or even a well-maintained lawn, he left me his "intellect." Not in a figurative sense, but as an actual, tangible collection of thoughts, knowledge, and deeply ingrained opinions. It surrounded me in chaotic piles, like an estate sale of his brain. Some of it was useful—practical know-how, random trivia, a suspicious amount of Nascar statistics. So I sifted through it, keeping what might serve me in life and packed up the rest into dozens of boxes and put it in the barn. Because, where else does one keep an overabundance of inherited intellect? 

Then there was the time I met God. Oh, that was a good one. So good, I often wonder if it was an actual afterlife experience. I stood with Him beneath a massive, glorious rotunda. The dome held the sky, the clouds, and multitudes of angels, all moving like a celestial symphony. The structure was held up by dozens of towering marble pillars, carved with intricate symbols that seemed both ancient and alive. 

We stood in the center of it all upon what looked like a map of the universe, or perhaps an entire galaxy beneath our feet. It shimmered like diamonds bursting with color, swirling with gemstones, ribbons of gold and silver weaving through nebula-like designs. I asked God what it was, and He replied, in the most matter-of-fact yet profoundly majestic way, "It’s a map of Heaven." 

So logically, I asked the first thing that came to mind, "Where does John Denver live?" And God answered, with a knowing smile, "Oh, he’s in the good part, on the country roads." 

I blinked, unsure if this was meant to be literal or poetic. Was there an actual designated area for beloved folk singers? Was he living in a celestial log cabin, strumming his guitar while floating on a golden cloud? More importantly when can I visit him? God didn’t elaborate, just gave me that all-knowing look, and I decided it was best to just accept the mystery. 

The Big Question: Why So Clever Asleep? 

The thing I can’t figure out is how my dream self is so effortlessly witty, tactical, and a master of deception, yet my real self struggles to answer a phone call without first hanging up. Dream Me is resourceful, confident, and speaks multiple languages fluently. Real Me trips over my own feet and will search for hours for my glasses which are almost always, resting on my head. 

How is this fair? Shouldn’t some of that cinematic dream brilliance leak into my waking life? But alas, it does not. Instead, I stumble through my day, waiting until I can slip back into my subconscious where I am a legend. 

My Dreams Deserve an Oscar 

I have accepted that my dreams will forever be more interesting than reality. And honestly, that’s fine. I keep a notebook on my nightstand to record the good ones, just in case I ever need material for a novel, a screenplay, or an escape plan. 

So if you ever wake up from a dream where you’re just riding a horse, know that I fully support your wholesome adventure—but I’ll be over here, dodging enemy spies in Shanghai and trying to fit a top-secret laser device into my toiletry bag. 

Sweet dreams!