I have been having this dream lately where I am somewhere, and I am trying to leave, and I keep going in all these wrong doors. [Trying to leave using the wrong door. I wonder where I am trying to leave.]
Last night I dreamed I was trying to leave my dance place (didn't at all look like my dance place.) I keep going through door after door. I finally get to what looks like the foyer. I finally get outside and am looking for where I parked my mom's car. I keep looking and looking down each side street I think I parked on, but I can't find it. I try the keyless entry to get it to honk. I do that a few times. Suddenly alarms go off and everyone is running around. Turns out, the car had a few packaged of microwave popcorn inside. Apparently, the horn honking set the popcorn popping. There is much ado about this. Lots of smoke. Lots of popcorn in the parking garage where I parked it. I have some friends sneak me into the garage because we think the garage attendants will try to detain me. Some guy participant tries to pick a fight with me. I call the police and they detain him. My "friends" all get in my car with all the popcorn and insist it would be better if they took my keys and cell phone, drive by and pick me up later. OK. Takes me a long time to get out of the garage. Deep wells and crazy staircases. I sneak out with some other track teams because suddenly I am with a lot of runners. I walk and walk thinking they will come by and pick me up. I am thirsty. Find some punk rock kids with a lemonade stand. Drink a large glass. Lie down and rest. Then, it's night time and I am in the middle of a bar/music festival. Some nice people buy me a drink. I think, well, I have been sober almost 13 years, but a few sips will be ok. [I get that one, I am coming up on my bday, and I usually have some drinking dreams, prior]. Finally, the festival is over. We get to leave. I walk against the foot traffic. Past the drag queen group, past a group dressed like scary devil people who talk like teenagers (giggly). I decide to help them clean up the festival by dragging long boards and sorting them into piles by size. [Totally lost with these]. Looking for my dancing teacher/Mr. Walsh, my 9th grade American history teacher, who is very sought after by lusty women, not by me per se. Can't find him. Alarm goes off.