I was visiting friends when a child insisted on going to see a particular performer. I was reluctant, and there was some discussion among others, but finally it was decided that everyone would go.
We walked outside, and although we were in a semi-rural area I soon found myself on the sidewalk of a busy urban street. At first I did not know where I was or where I was going, and then I remembered that the performer was at a theater up the street that I'd been to before. I turned around to say something to the others, but they weren't anywhere to be seen, either behind me, ahead of me, or at the theater. I realized that they had driven somewhere else while I had walked and that I was separated and lost.
I think I must always be going in the opposite direction.
I remembered suddenly that I was to take some kind of college-related exam on the subject of Japan. I thought this odd because I don't have any in-depth knowledge of Japan and couldn't imagine why or how I would take such a test.
When I arrived for it, I realized there were only 15 minutes of it left—and that That Boy, my competition, was also taking it. I had brought a new Rhodia pencil, but when I tried to use the normally black eraser (before even writing anything), it proved to be a bright, almost impossible, shade of pink and broke off immediately.
My panic rose even more when I saw the questions, which mentioned what seemed to be Chinese place names. I had 15 minutes to complete an important test about Japan with Chinese place names, which mattered little because I could not answer questions about either. With That Boy there, undoubtedly earning a perfect score, my academic humiliation was complete.
So ends another panic-filled dream related to college, from which I graduated in 1983. I wonder how much more dream angst I will suffer over this old fait accompli, not to mention That Boy. Surely life has offered more interesting challenges than that.