You know you're working too much when

I dreamt I was driving a lab chair down the street.

OK honestly it didn't start that way. The way dreams often begin with a more plausible scenario before taking a turn for the bizarre, I was driving my red Ford Focus down Western Ave toward the ferry terminal.  I was supposed to catch the clipper to Victoria with my sister who was riding shotgun with a friend.  I could see the grey BMW a few car lengths ahead to my left.  Traffic was nose to bumper, inching along and we had only forty minutes before sailing.  Considering we were less than a block from our destination, this seems like a plenty of time, right up until you are trying to park in Seattle traffic on a Saturday when the sun is actually out.

My cousin pulled over.  My sister hopped out, waved her thanks, closed the door.  I saw her heading up the pedestrian walkway to the dock.  My lane inched forward half a foot and stopped again.  Just as despair was setting in, I spotted a  Shell station with an adjacent, high-vacancy parking lot.  A seriously tiny sign advertised "parking $5".  The lot was literally only two thirds full; possibly no one else's brain was prepared to accept the existence of cheap, close, ferry parking.   A bright pink UFO landing in the middle of the roadway would have been no less unprecedented.

I turned right into the small, fenced entryway, and then realized I would have to drive all the way into the Shell convenience store.  I thought, damn, this is barely wide enough for my lab chair.  And just like that, I was driving a six-legged office chair with light green upholstery, steering it with my feet, which left my hands free to open the door. 

I still had a sense of disbelief when the Shell attendant smiled, leaned over the counter and took my proffered five dollar bill.   "Normally it's all corporate parking," she said, her voice barely more than a conspiratorial whisper.  She had loosely curled red hair, freckles, pale milky skin.  She smelled like strawberries.  "It's a promotion; they want to generate consumer goodwill."  They had my warm fuzzy feelings now, for sure.  Not that I fueled the Office Buddy 2000 all that often, but still.  I might be more likely to buy  my Coke and gummy bears from Shell convenience stores when taking office chair road trips.

She took the  motorcycle helmet I had been wearing for safety, and held open the door as I foot-pedaled the chair out into the parking lot.  Number 76, she said, pointing to an empty spot.

I thanked her.

Just before waking, I remembered that I'd had a noon meeting at work that I had organized.  Had I gone?  I couldn't remember; I didn't think so.  I was supposed to bring lunch.  Nothing like waking at 5am with the thought: oh thank god I didn't really forget to order pizza.