Maybe it’s an ailment only men will understand, but let it be known that I suffer from recurring dreams about my old cars. It’ll be three in the morning, and I’ll be enjoying a nice snooze under a warm blanket when my subconscious will grab its little photo album of all our old cars. “Oh, look! There’s that tiny MG you had! And here’s that ancient Mercedes. Remember that one?” And I will remember each and every one of those cars, and the memories will become solid again, and I’ll drive around Dreamland in a car that I haven’t seen for 30 years. And I know this happens to you too.
We all dream of our lost loves. Some of you might dream about old girlfriends. I dream about old cars. There’s not much difference, is there?
My wife probably wishes I’d dream about old girlfriends instead of old cars. She knows she’s the only one for me, but when it comes to cars, she knows I have a weakness for bright headlights and black leather seats, and that weakness can be costly. After one of those vivid car dreams, I’ll mope around, wondering why I ever sold my baby, and my subconscious will pester me to set the world right again. “You need to buy a used Jaguar XJ6! Or, maybe it’s time to buy a Volvo Amazon!” It’s tempting to believe my subconscious, but it lies to me about how much hair I have left, so I’ve learned to just ignore it when it suggests such temptations as a cute little XJ6.
The strangest car dreams are when I think I still own the car. “Hey! I didn’t sell my rusted out Fiat after all! It’s here, under this tree in the backyard, underneath the pine straw and bird droppings.” I had one of those dreams a few months ago where I found my dilapidated Alfa Romeo under a tarp. Those are sad dreams, because when I wake up, I remember that the car really is gone, and I can’t go out and evict the squirrels and scrape bird poop off the paint.
I should end this column here. My subconscious is reaching for the silver Camaro photo album, and I’m suddenly very, very sleepy.