Sweet Dreams

In addition to having become a low-carb, low salt, high veg, non-beer drinking, running, swimming brideaholic, I’ve started to have ‘troubled sleep.’ Recently, I have been waking in the wee hours terrified that one or either of us won’t make it to the wedding. This is more than a little worrying as the “joyful day” is still months away.

The nightmare scenarios vary: run down by renegade buses; savaged by random, rogue bears; abducted by malevolent aliens, you name it. Sometimes, I’m not able to wake myself out of the dream, and the D.E.B. has to take hold of me, and comfort me back to reality, as I lay flailing about slaying dragons, sharks or Lord Voldemort.

I realize that the source of this angst is an anxiety driven by the fact that I am utterly afraid of being “too happy.” That somehow being “too happy” or too much in love, will inevitably trigger a negative and adverse response in the universe to redress the cosmic balance. (I really need more Vitamin B, or maybe even a beer.  Or two.)

Thankfully, I know that I am not alone in this. It is good to have others with whom I can share this experience and anxiety. A new and wonderful friend of mine, Elizabeth, a fellow Yankette in the UK, is getting married in less than two weeks. Dynamo that she is, she has planned a simple, elegant soiree in under two months. Diva or what?

It was such a comfort to be able to put in a tearful call to her recently with an irrational medical concern (brain tumor resulting from standing too close to the microwave?), and have her reduce my fears to giggles. Hypochondriacs of the world, unite! Yes, I am the girl to whom many an exasperated doctors has mused impatiently: “Sometimes, a cold is just a cold.”

So, thanks to Elizabeth’s good counsel and a chat with the D.E.B., who confided that he, too, was feeling a touch of the “Don’t Be Too Happy” anxiety (though he has not taken it into his dreams) I am feeling and sleeping much better. And my dreams have improved.

The other morning, the D.E.B. informed me that I called out in my sleep (again). Embarrassed, I apologized. “Oh, no, no, sweetheart,” he said. “This time was a good one. You were laughing. And then you shouted ‘I will!’”  Hmm…a sweet dream indeed.

(Note: The Church of England wedding ceremony has the couples declaring ‘I will’ when taking vows, not ‘I do.”)

Success!

I did it! I drove today. That’s right I got behind the wheel of “the tank” (SAAB wagon) and drove.

The D.E.B. needed to collect his camper van from the mechanic’s shop in Alveston, so we made a plan over the weekend that I would drive him there.  I had, thankfully, forgotten about this little plan, so I did not have time to fret and panic about it today before the D.E.B. arrived home from work.

My only real fear, apart from killing us, was having the D.E.B. as co-pilot on the journey to Alveston. (I have sooo many horror stories of impatient and irate relatives, parents, etc. "coaching" me while I'm behind the wheel. Curious that, people don't seem to realize the more nervous and anxious you make the person the more rattled they become.) But, of course, true to his sterling character, he was kind, patient and encouraging the entire way. 

The road to Alveston is quite serpentine, and of course everyone drives fast, fast, fast here! But, I stayed calm and just chanted my mantra: “Left, Left, Left, stay on the Left.” The only problem is, and I don’t know what it's called exactly, but I think I might be "right-left disoriented." I mean generally. In New York, when people would stop and ask me for directions, I would have to raise my hand or turn my body to physically engage my brain as to which direction I trying to utter. Not a good practice, I think, to attempt whilst driving. I will need to work on this.

Still. First things first. I did it! I drove! Fear conquered! There will be no stopping me now!

Patience and fortitude, or "This is how I roll"

My Warwickshire Stagecoach Bus Pass. I'm a "Mega Rider," apparently.

As a New Yorker, I am no stranger to public transport. Contrary to what you see on "Sex & the City," public transport is the most reliable and often the quickest way of getting round the City. Like most New Yorkers I know, I happily sold my car, and lived on the subway. 

Public transport in England is another matter altogether.

The 2:07 PM bus to Warwick whizzed through Barford early today. I knew it would.  Even though the bus schedule (timetable), pinned up near the Joseph Arch pub states clearly and distinctly "Every hour on the hour at 7 minutes past," it really anybody's guess what time the bus will actually arrive! My routine journeys to Stratford-upon-Avon or Warwick (in the opposite direction) are life lessons in patience and fortitude.

The trip to Stratford, an easy, mindless 10 minute journey by car, becomes a half hour expedition, a daily act of faith, and a test of patience. Patience with the buses that arrive late, and depart early, if they come at all. I comfort myself with the thought that I am somehow being more 'green' and helping the environment...

What I should confess is that this sorry state of affairs is completely and utterly my choice.

In an effort to make this new life easier and more accessible for me, the D.E.B. traded in his sexy Subaru for a sensible, automatic Saab. Without having a stick-shift (gear-box) to contend with, went his line of thinking, I would feel more at ease behind the wheel. Not so. I am terrified. The Saab seems as big as a tank when I look at it. That, and the thought of taking to the road (and roundabouts) with the hordes of fierce English drivers, all going far too fast on the opposite of the road is more than my mind and bravery can take!

 

Of course, this should not be, given that I actually learned to drive in England in the first place! I know, it makes no sense at all. While I was living in England as a grad student, I learned to drive. I needed to. I was a temp after all. And a temp without wheels is, well, pretty useless. And unemployable. So I learned to drive. I paid a dear amount of my non-existent money to not one, but two, different driving instructors. I screwed my courage to the sticking place, bit the bullet and took the British Driving Test. And I failed it, three times. One the first attempt I did not even make it out of the parking lot, but failed instantly, before the test even started by stalling the car, twice, before we could even get going. Needless to say, by the time I did pass the test, I was an immensely proficient and confident driver. Even now, I know in my heart I could do a three-point turn on a dime! And I can reverse park into a parking space, blindfolded. I had a British drivers license years before I ever bothered to even think of driving in America. (By contrast the American driving test is a joke! It is so ridiculously simple, a toddler could pass it.) Why then, am I paralyzed with fear thought of driving here again. Why then, am I relegating myself to the mercy and whim of Warwickshire's finest bus drivers? I don't know.

The excuse I give to the D.E.B. is that he needs the car more than I do, and that I'm used to public transport. We'll see how long that holds up once the weather takes a turn toward winter. 

The excuse I give myself is that I'd drive, if we had a smaller car. I'd feel more in control, and less overwhelmed. And less afraid. Well, there is it finally. I'm afraid. Maybe now that I've got that out, I can face that fear and do something about it.