It’s Junior Year. Spirit Week. I’m deciding what to wear. Your level of participation in a Spirit Week says a lot about you. More about you than where you stand in the lobby or where you park your car. At least those were two tools used to group people at my high school. The popular and athletic kids hung out near the gym. The wholesome, hilarious youth group kids hung out under the split staircase. The “Pit Kids” hung out by the bench near the main office. “Pit Kids” were the kids who walked to the horse farm (“The Pit”) across the street to smoke cigarettes between classes because it wasn’t technically school property. When they returned to school, they came through the doors and parked themselves right next to the principal’s office. It was very Punk Rock.

The parking lot situation was similar. The parking lot near the gym housed all the athletes and aspiring athletes. Another area had, well, everyone else. And the back of the parking lot is where you had to park if you were late coming back from lunch at Chipotle.  

Where was I? Oh yes, reflecting on Spirit Week Participation. I judged the kids who had elaborate, well-prepared costumes. Weeks prior, they picked through the local thrift stores to get the best items. Their parents, skilled with a sewing machine, had a room full of pipe cleaners, fabric, and other crafty shit, taking a costume to the next level. Sometimes I’d pretend to be “too busy” to be bothered by such riff raff. I would grumble, “How could they waste their time preparing for something so meaningless?” But in all honesty, I was just jealous that those kids had the audacity to be self-confident at such a young age. Meanwhile, I fell into the camp of kids that wanted to dress up, but instead wore something safe and on theme, but brought the face paint and light up sweater in a backpack to put on at school after getting a read on the rest of the kids.

Of course, some kids forgot about spirit days entirely. I never understood them. You’re telling me you don’t have deep rooted anxiety that you’re forgetting something all the time? And you’re not constantly preoccupied with how to simultaneously fit in and stand out? You just wake up in the morning, get dressed, and just go to school? I don’t get it.

You know, since I’m deep diving into Spirit Week, I’d like to take a quick detour to talk about my dad, Dave. Dave hated spirit days. He hated anything that distracted from a traditional learning environment. Which proved particularly ironic as I later learned of his antics.  He didn’t do petty stuff like carve the “fuck” word into a desk or draw a penis in a history book. I mean I’m sure he did those things, but he also took it to the next level by locking his German teacher in a closet and throwing his friend out of a window. Totally reckless. He pokes fun at his reputation as a hell raising coed in this recent Facebook post:

The irony here is quite layered. I did not learn of his delinquency until college, at which point I had surpassed the age where he could be held accountable if I acted a fool.  When I was growing up, I feared what my dad would do if I got into trouble. The most significant trouble I found myself in was in the 5^th grade. I had a long-distance boyfriend at the time. And by long-distance, of course I mean he was in a different class. We kept the romance alive by waving at each other on the bus and passing notes on the playground. Alas, his teacher intercepted one of those note. A note in which I talked shit about my teacher, saying I hated her and wished I was in his class; probably so I could wave at him more often but also avoid eye contact at the pencil sharpener. Young love, am I right? To be fair, my 5^th grade teacher was a hot mess and everyone knew it. Her ex-husband would substitute teach for her when she took days off (which I assume were mental health days based on that last sentence). She made sure to let us know they were recently divorced and on good terms. See what I mean? Long story short, Dave was not impressed… with either of us. Here’s hoping she’s moved on and moved forward.

Anyway, the only thing my dad hated more than spirit days was, “Take Your Child to Work Day.” Below is yet another recent Facebook post for further evidence:

My brother and I are both in our 30’s. It’s been at least 15 years since he’s been presented with an opportunity to take either of us to work, but he’s still lamenting over it. Classic DEG behavior (David E. Gustavson).  He’s been referring to himself by his initials for as long as I can remember.

I used to believe he opposed the day because he hated workplace distractions. Now I think it’s because he didn’t want my brother or me interrupting the 30-minute car nap he took every day at 12pm. Either way, I’m telling you this story because his stance on Take Your Child to Work Day was a key factor in my parents’ divorce.

No, I’m kidding. But that would have been an unexpected turn, right?

OK, for real. It’s Spirit Week. I decide instead of half-assing my participation, I should just go for it, show my school spirit, and fully participate. So, I go to school in full costume. Which, in this case, is not a costume at all. I’m completed naked. Because the spirit day is Naked Day.

Did I forget to mention I’m describing one of my recurring dreams?

Whoops. Sorry about that.

Listen, I know it can be painful to pay attention while someone talks about their “crazy dream from last night.” I trust we’ve all had the experience when an acquaintance or a coworker tells you about a dream they had, and it drags on too long. You pretend to follow along but truthfully, they lost you after the fourth minute and now you’re thinking about the last time you had a bowel movement or what you need from the grocery store.  The only exception is if I’m told up front that I’m in the dream. That’s a game changer. I love knowing people think about me when I’m not around. So, when someone’s subconscious thinks about me without their consent? Is there anything more flattering? Not for me.

I elected to talk about my dream, despite knowing the potential risks. I mean, worst case, if this post helps you remember you need to pick up a loaf of bread and some Metamucil from the grocery store, I helped accomplish something. I also wouldn’t mind some feedback from any amateur dream analysts out there regarding what this dream says about me or my inner world. I just ask that when you draw your conclusions, you give me the feedback gently. For example, have you ever had a friend who is excited about a guy she’s dating but when you meet him, you sort of get the feeling that his last girlfriend probably broke up with him because she caught him verbally harassing a school aged child while playing Grand Theft Auto at 2am on a Tuesday? So, when she asks what you think, you reframe your observation and say, “he seems in touch with his inner child,” and “he’s not easily discouraged.” That’s sort of what I’m looking for.

Would you like another example? Great, because I’ve prepared one. Earlier, I said “I love knowing people think about me when I’m not around,” to which you could have interpreted that I’m desperate for validation, which would be accurate. But instead of saying it like that, you could said, “It’s important Kristy feels significant to the people in her life.” See what I did there? I prefer that level of feedback because I’m emotionally fragile, like a glass trinket or a dry spaghetti noodle.

Back to the dream. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve had this dream. But it’s certainly over 10. It changes slightly depending on my age and school. I first had the dream as a young kid, and it continues to follow me. Elementary School. Middle School. High School. College. Grad School. These days, it could be family picnic or a work event. All settings for, what I’ve coined, my “Naked Day” dream. Not to be confused with my Naked Daydream; a daydream in which I…you know what? I better stop.

Full disclosure (as if this entire blog isn’t a full disclosure), the dream never includes me getting ready for Naked Day. The dream begins when I’m already naked and at school.  No one has much to say about it. I go about my day as I always do. Talk to some of my friends, walk to class. I struggle to articulate how I feel in the dream because it’s really unfathomable that anyone would feel that comfortable in their nudity, but there I am.

No one is bothered or disturbed by my presence. And that’s not my coy way of saying no one had any complaints, if you know what I mean. Genuinely no one noticed or said anything about it. No gawking or teasing, just spirited participation.

However, the day takes a turn within the first dream hour (“dream hour” is a measurement of time I just made up, feel free to use it as you deem appropriate). Usually, one thing sets off the chain of events, like I become aware of the physical weight of braless boobs, or I remember I’m giving a presentation and I realize I would prefer to be clothed while talking about the Industrial Revolution or the Cold War. Although being braless and discussing the feminist movement would be epic and impactful.

It’s then that I notice no one else is naked. That’s when I get frantic. I scour my locker for clothes, ask my friends for a spare hoodie, beg for a gym uniform. I’d even settle for a confiscated t-shirt with an inappropriate logo or an overused phrase like, “This IS My Happy Face” or “I’m With Stupid.” But alas, I always come up empty handed. No one has a single item to spare.

Overwhelmed by shame and fear, I have to get out of there. I start to plan an exit strategy, like pull a fire alarm or spirit toward the door (only after holding my boobs against my body with both hands so they don’t knock anything over on the way out). But before I can execute my plan, I wake up.  

You may be asking yourself, why share this dream­­­— or rather, overshare this dream? At least that’s the first thing my mom asked after reading my first draft, as if to say, “Honey…why?” The truth is, I always envisioned myself talking about this dream. Maybe because I’ve had it so many times, it’s now a significant piece of information to know about me. Like, I was born in New Jersey, I’m allergic to avocados, I love writing, and I have a recurring dream about going to school naked. Like somehow it helps explain why I’m like this.

Even in my work as a therapist, I cannot tell you (because that would be a HIPAA violation and I don’t keep a tally) how many times a client wants me to analyze a dream. Typically, I remind them I’m not Sigmund Freud and instead ask them if they see their mother in this ink blot I’m holding.

The thing about recurring dreams is just that; they are recurring (thank God you don’t pay me for my professional interpretations, right?). But seriously—they recur because they reflect something significant about us; a pattern in the subconscious. As for my dream, it portrays my fear of being truly seen by the people in my life. Sure, I want people to think about me when I’m not around, but only in a favorable light. I want them to think about how funny and charming I am. I don’t want them to know the depths of my insecurities or my multitudes of shortcomings. If they see that, they may run for the hills—and if they don’t, I will. But not before I strap myself down with a couple sports bras and some sensible running sneakers.

My fear of being seen prevented me from participating in actual spirit days as a young person and likely also explains why I write 2 pages worth of jokes before I can demonstrate genuine vulnerability. Because being seen, really seen, that’s high stakes shit. Recurring dreams help us better understand ourselves. It’s just like dating the same type of guy over and over or having 10 bouts of painful indigestion after eating ice to come to terms with your dairy allergy. We repeat a pattern until we acknowledge it and work to change it. For me, I could spend a lifetime trying to curate a favorable image for the world to see (Instagram filters sure help with that), but at the end of the day, I’d left with some surface level connections and the burden of maintaining that image on days when it’s hard to put on pants.

I wish I could tell you I haven’t had this dream in years, or that I won’t have it again, because obviously that’s how I would like you to think of me. The truth is, I will continue to have this dream, as I continue to struggle with vulnerability, as I imagine most of us do. But I figure with enough time and practice, it will get easier to face and embrace my fears. That’s one thing writing has given me; the practice of vulnerability. It may not necessarily get easier, but the feedback from people saying something I wrote hit home for them, it’s worth the potential humiliation of my confessions.

So, there you have it. That’s my recurring dream, “Naked Day.” Thanks for listening. I look forward to your gentle feedback.

Oh, and sweet dreams!