The marathon nightmares, I mean. I dreamt that I had already run 30 of the 36 miles (I know a marathon is only 26.2 miles; give me a break, it’s just a dream), and I realized I hadn’t had anything to drink. I felt amazingly good–I had floated through those 30 miles and I couldn’t remember anything about them in the dream–but figured I should take some of the lime green Gatorade offered in tiny cups at this water stop that seemed awfully small for the NYC marathon. And then, somehow, I wasn’t running anymore. I had gone home for a quick nap or something (and home was some NY apartment), and I panicked suddenly that I wasn’t going to finish the race. I charged out and tried to get back to the last place I remembered, which was mile 30. It was far away from where I was. I decided to tell people I had stopped because of stomach pain because that sounded a lot better than, “I went back to my apartment just because I felt like it.” I desperately asked people if they could take me back, only I didn’t have any money on me for a subway or a taxi. I kept asking taxi drivers if they’d take a credit card (figuring that I could simply use the number since I had it memorized). Finally someone said, “Oh, you’re in the race? I’ll take you!” I was so relieved, but then I freaked out when I realized he was also dropping off two other people elsewhere and he was dropping them off first. I woke up just as I was shouting at him, “Can’t you drop me off first? I’ve got to finish the race!”
Hmmm, I’m not showing any anxiety about the marathon. No, no. Not me.
