Last night I dreamt I went to a gym. Yes, Rock and Roll Grammarian has become so physically inert that she now only exercises in her mind.
Anyway, this wasn’t my real-life gym. This gym was built atop ancient ruins. I looked around for a decent treadmill — most of the machines were dusty and old — and eventually found one. For an hour I ran uphill, surveying the steps and paths around me for a safe way down, because what I really wanted to do was stop running in place and test the speed and strength of my legs on earth.
I didn’t find a way down, but after I climbed off the treadmill, a few co-workers found me and insisted I go for a ride with them in their Volkswagen bus. I said OK and hopped in the bus, which was red and dented. The windows were all down, and I was riding shotgun, bantering with the guy in the back seat about politics and television. We were highly amusing.
At first they wouldn’t tell me where we were going, but finally they announced we were headed to dinner. This pissed me off a little, as I was still sweaty and grimy from the gym. That’s all I remember.
What’s especially weird about this is that when I woke up this morning, my leg muscles were killing me.