Last night I had a vivid dream which has stayed with me. These are the details:
I have joined a troupe of competitive wrestlers. They all have a flair for entertainment, and the style of combat inside the ring is much more akin to professional than amateur wrestling. Nevertheless, the matches are real. There are no preordained outcomes, and more importantly the injuries can be very real for those who are unprepared. Though I have joined the troupe, I have never wrestled before and have no idea how to perform the moves that will be expected.
We wrestlers have come together into a man’s home for a party. The living room looks like something from the 1970s. The men are young to middle aged, but they are all the same in terms of their overall appearance. They are uniformly white with thick, black, handlebar mustaches and Hitler haircuts. They are wearing green Leisure suits with shiny yellow lapels and yellow loafers. They are all exceptionally fit with the distinctive physiques of bodybuilders from the early 1900s (large chests and thin waistlines, but without the monstrously large and defined muscles we associate with Schwarzenegger era bodybuilders). The men are affable, but they speak with one another in quiet tones. There is a skipping Perry Como LP on the record player. The party host is the manager for all of the wrestlers, and I want to speak with him about preparing for my first bout. I am nervous, because I have never done any of the wrestling acrobatic moves expected of me. I sit on the sofa where he is, but I am unable to break into his conversation with other wrestlers.
It turns out I am slated to fight a famous lady wrestler. Though she is not named in my dream, she looks like a young version of the Fabulous Moolah with an oversized, curly, early 1960s bouffant. She wrestles in a working class skirt that looks like something a female employee would have worn at Shotz Brewery on “Laverne & Shirley.” She has a tough broad persona that she has perfected for the ring, but I suspect she is strong in real life as well. She is not at this party – only the male wrestlers and their manager are there – but as I sit there on that sofa I envision this Fabulous Moolah lookalike fighting other ladies in the ring. Though the fights are not fixed, I have been instructed that at some point I need to bodyslam her. That is what bothers me the most, for I have not a clue how to bodyslam anyone. I have seen it done, of course. I know what it is, but that is very different from actually do it myself.
Since I am never able to break into the conversation, I sit there on that sofa getting more and more anxious as the night goes on. Apparently, there is no one with whom I can talk on this matter. I am going to go into that match ill prepared to bodyslam a lady wrestler.