Never ask your husband for dream analysis
I dreamed that I needed to cut off some flesh from my calf muscles to feed the children (read into that what you will!) Anyway, in typical Mrs Dubai fashion, I didn’t think it through, and simply hacked off my legs from just under the knees with a cleaver. As you do.
And, as I sat there, scraping the flesh from the skin ready to cook (really, and this from a vegetarian), it suddenly occurred to me that I could have just sliced off some calf meat and saved my legs; the muscle might have grown back. The feeling of having made an absolutely horrific mistake was galling.
In the dream, I went through rehab and had prosthetics fitted. I had to learn to walk again. But all I could think was: Why was I so bloody stupid as to cut off my own legs? The sense of regret was all-consuming.
Needless to say, I woke in the night, sweating a little and mighty relieved to discover it was only a dream.
DH is pretty good at dream analysis, especially as he usually has far more insight into what’s going on in my mind than I do myself, so I ran it by him by means of conversation in the morning.
What did he think it meant? Was I dedicating myself to my children to the extent that it was having a detrimental effect on my sense of self? Was cutting off my legs – my means of freedom – a symbol of how I really felt about not going back to work (I was offered and turned down a really good job this week)? What did DH think?
“How much of your legs did you cut off?” he asked, sleepily. There was a comic pause. “About ‘two feet’? Ha-ha-ha!” he rolled about in bed laughing.
“Seriously, darling,” I persevered. Really, I should learn when to quit. “What do you think?”
“Hmm,” he said. “Were you yourself in the dream? Or someone else?”
“I was me?”
“Oh,” he dead-panned. “I thought you might have been Denise…” [de-knees, for those who don’t get DH’s humour].
I rest my case: Never ask your husband for dream anaylsis.