To Prom on a Giraffe-Sized Bicycle

Some dreams are just ridiculous. 

The other night I dreamt that I was going to prom.  It’s been almost three years since I’ve been out of high school and one promise that I made to myself was that I would never do anything that resembles prom ever, ever again, so why I dreamt this, I don’t know.

It seemed quite natural at the time that this prom had two parts: two dining parties with a three-hour rest time in between.

As I put on my tux, preparing to go out for the evening, I shook my head.  “Gosh, and I thought Christie,” (you know her by now, right?) “would never drag me through something like this.” Tuxes suck.  They just do. The pants are thin and the shirts are too starchy.  And who the hell wants to deal with cufflinks?

(Have I said that I hate prom yet?)

Once I got ready, I hopped on my bike (yes, my bike…it was strangely tall, though, like it was crossed with a giraffe) and pedaled up East Laurel Place to go pick up my girlfriend.  Maybe my giraffe bike had a sidecar or something.  As I stopped at the stoplight, which apparently is required of someone riding a giraffe bike (Giraffike? Bikraffe?), a large cableless cable car pulled up beside me. Seated inside was everyone popular I had ever met. I think even Zach Efron and Taylor Swift were mingling in there. The popular kids saw me, but pretended like they didn’t see me. I felt my tie shorten and twist in to a bowtie and grow unfashionably large. They just laughed and laughed at their own popular jokes, and sped off. Jerks.

Picking up Christie on my Giraffecycle and pedaling to the first dinner for some reason was not included in my dream, but I’m sure it was very romantic.

I must have pedaled a long way that night, because we ended up in the gym of my college athletics building in St. Paul, Minnesota. It was decorated to the hills. Each table was a booth resting in a giant seashell; heavy red curtains adorned with strings of mermaid lights surrounded each one for privacy. Christie and I met up with another couple from college and sat with them waiting for a meal that I don’t think I ever found out, though I have a feeling I was expecting fondue.  This prom wasn’t turning out too shabby after all!

Jump to the three-hour break between dinners. I changed out of that horrible tux, and sat around in sweats and my undershirt. I originally planned to watch some television, but soon realized all I wanted to do was take a nap.  Why I dreamed this immensely boring part and not a Bicaraffe ride, I have no idea.

If there’s anything more annoying than changing into a tuxedo, it’s changing into a tuxedo again. I shook my head, Darn it, Christie, and started longingly at my sweatpants. Oh, to feel their 100% Cotton hugs around my skinny legs again! It would have to wait. On to the second dinner.

This one was going to be good. Famous Dave’s was catering a barbeque on a tropical ocean wave-splashed beach somewhere in the Arden Hills, Minnesota area. Maybe not the best location for a bunch of men in uncomfortable suits and women in poofy dresses. Nonetheless, I was excited; I love Famous Dave’s.

As I swaggered down to the beach (does anyone else ever feel the urge to walk in a way that you think looks “cooler” when you arrive to a gathering of a bunch of your peers?) and took a seat on one of the couches—yes, couches—on the shore. It was an L-shaped couch with a fun black, white, gray, brown and pink pattern on it. This seat was near the grills, that’s why I chose it—a front row seat and the possibility of being served first.

I relaxed, watching all the people I know mingling around, talking in their circles, with what I think were beer bottles in their hands.  (I may be wrong about this, because it was a Bethel University function, and we signed a covenant against drinking.)  Maybe it was root beer. Out of the corner of my eye, however, I saw a very large man by the grill who I knew was Christie’s father (even though Christie’s real dad looks nothing like him) slam his spatula down and stomp over to me.  In one swift motion, he grabbed the back of my seat and flipped it forward, sending me face-first into the sand with my section of the couch on top of me.  “This is MY seat!” he barked.

Jeez!

I pushed the couch off of myself and shook the sand of my tux.  I felt a strange burning on the skin of my lower back, right at my belt line. Two dogs, one cute and the other tremendously ugly, came up and let me pet them for a quick second. I decided to go home.  This party was over for me.

How I got back to my house I don’t know…maybe on the Bikeraffle.  I still felt the burning along my belt line, so I took off my pants to take a look.  (I don’t know why I decided to completely take off my pants; simply twisting around and taking a look would have been fine.)  As I slipped off my underwear, which were, strangely, whitey-tighties (I’m a boxer guy), the elastic band along the top of the backside was covered with blood. Apparently the whities were a little too tighty and cut the top of my butt in the scuffle I had with Christie’s dad.

Oh great, I thought, Now I’ll have to throw these away.  

And then I woke up.  Not in a cold sweat or anything, just a profound feeling of “what the heck was that?”

Like I said, some dreams are just ridiculous.