Anxiety Much?

Dream time. I am in an unfamiliar building — a large, multi-grade school — and looking for the toilets. I’m in a bad mood. As I head down a poorly lit hallway towards a pair of unmarked doors, I hear a kid come up behind me trilling, “cheep, cheep, cheep!” which for some reason irritates me beyond reason. I whirl around and punch her in the stomach, only then do realize that it is a little pudgy girl wearing glasses, and I am a big, tall teenager.

Way to go, idiot.

Amazingly, she doesn’t cry. I apologize. We stand in front of these unmarked, white painted, rust-stained doors, and I have to pick one. So I pick, heading in. It is, thank goodness, a bathroom. She follows me.

It’s a big bathroom, with a maze of doorless stalls and stations, urinals of all sizes and shapes crammed into rusty lockers, and a few regular toilets that look like they haven’t been cleaned in years.

“You can’t go in here,” the little girl proclaims. “This is the boys’ room.”


“You’re not a boy.”

“How do you know that?”

“Your voice!” She giggles like it’s the funniest joke in the world. “That’s a girl’s voice.”

“Maybe I’m just a guy with something wrong with his voice,” I say a little gruffly.

“Oh.” She shuts up then but follows me around as I search for a place to pee. I can’t fit into any of the locker-thin stalls, and don’t want to pee in front of her and reveal that I’m a boy with something wrong with his penis, too.

“Aren’t you gonna go?”

“Not with you watching.”

“Okay.” And she leaves. Sweet mercy, she leaves. I go into the only halfway acceptable stall — a normal sized one with a normal sized (albeit filthy) toilet, and a door that doesn’t quite close.

As soon as she’s gone, another kid — a boy this time, a couple years older than the girl had been, but still younger than me — pops up from where he’d been hiding. “Whew, thank god she’s gone!” he tells me conspiratorially. I agree with him, and try to get on with the business of peeing. He seems to be completely accepting that I’m a boy with something wrong with his voice.

Half a dozen other boys and men materialize out of the nooks and crannies into which they presumably hid when the little girl entered. They range in age from little kids to teenagers like dream-me, to a fully-bearded thirty-something teacher in a bad tan corduroy sport coat and brown tie. They all seem to accept me as male, though the teacher gives me a close look.

Another teacher-aged guy wants to get into the stall I’m in, which now has two side by side toilets in it. He tries to push past the partially open door before I’ve finished. I apologize and explain that I have an injured hip and need to stand up first. I bend way over as I pull up my boxers, so that my shirt tails hide what I lack.

And… That’s it. No one stops me, I get out with my bladder empty and my right to be there unchallenged. Except by that little girl, who has gone away.

Screw symbolism in dreams. Literal much, Nezu?


~ by Nezu on 28 February 2011.

3 Responses to “Anxiety Much?”

  1. *hugs you*

    We took the gender signs off the church bathrooms this winter.

    Every little step, right?

  2. Have you not had other bathroom dreams before? Me thinks this one ends well. 🙂

  3. I’ve never had a good dream that involed me using the restroom-

    Wait there was one with some sort of sex demon but I don’t think THAT was using the restroom in the traditional way.

    But ever since I was little, and even now (thought they are less frequent now, thank you, you stupid bladder) if I used a toliet or pee’d in the ocean or found a nice bush in a dream, I’d jerk awake when the urine would go sideways acorrs my thigh and I’d get to jerk awake and clean up.

    In other words, my wet dreams were very literal and no fun at all.

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