A Silly Story About Handwriting

I used to have recurring dreams.  Not the exact same dream, but the theme was identical.  I dreamt about tornadoes.  Always in the den in the home of my late grandparents, in my dreams I would look out across the fields of corn and watch tornadoes dance towards me.  Some were pastel pink, blue, and mint green.  Once I stood in one looking up at the wind around me.  Never scared, I loved these dreams.  I was in awe (I still am) of their power and grace.  These tornadoes did not destroy.

A suggestion I analyze my dreams led me to a bookstore where I combed through dream dictionaries trying to find meaning.  All the books offered the same explanation:  trauma in my life, crises, extreme emotions, impending disasters.

Please.  Dreaming about tornadoes was a gift.  I felt no tension, upcoming temper tantrum, or doom and gloom on the horizon.  Quite the contrary.  I loved waking up after seeing tornadoes in my sleep.  I felt calm.  Happy.  In my dreams, tornadoes were good.

Which is why I stopped reading silly dream dictionaries.  I didn't agree.  They were wrong.  My dreams.  My rules.

Reading somewhere recently that handwriting filled with loops indicated sociopathic tendencies, I was reminded of these dream dictionaries.  Allow me to share a story.

Because banks in Japan are generally rigid with rules I don't always understand, I opened an account with a branch of a US-based bank.  Here my signature was enough to open an account whereas Japanese banks require a registered stamp.  I have one of these stamps but I don't always know where it is, making it more of a challenge to go to the counter and beg for mercy to access my account without the proper proof of who I am.  (The stamp proves I'm me.  Not my ID.  Don't ask.)

I recently went back to the branch office of this US-based bank to change my address.  I showed proof of who I am and signed on the dotted line.  I handed the paper back to the teller who looks at it, then at the computer screen, then back to me.

"Your signatures don't match," he says.
"What signatures?" I ask because this doesn't make sense.
"Your signature here," and he points to where I just signed, "and here," now pointing to the computer screen.
I'm tempted to ask, "So?  You know it's me," but I don't.  Here's why.

I am one of these people whose signature changes with my mood.  Some days my writing is illegible.  Other days I have big loops for the "y" in my name.  Still other days the "a" and "m" are angular.  Today it's a combination of the above.  The point is, the my signature today does not look like the one I offered when I opened the account.  My mood today?  Okay.  I'm in a hurry.  I'm hungry.  Not cranky.  Generally good.  This leads to a slightly illegible, loopy "y" and pointy "a" and "m".  So then, what was my mood when I opened the account?  How the hell am I supposed to remember this?

Evidently, this hand-writing-changing-with-moods thing is not all that common.  All around me are people whose signature has remained the same for years:  my parents, husband, son.  I'm baffled by this.  They're baffled by me.

I think through all this as I contemplate what to say to the man in front of me.  I finally decide on what seems to me the simplest answer.

"May I see my original signature?"
"Ah, sorry.  No."
I laughed.
I did.
He didn't.
Fine.

"Okay.  Let me try again."  I take a piece of paper from the small tablet in front of me and sign it not all that differently.
"Here.  Try this."
He takes the sheet, looks at it, glances up at the screen, and handing it back to me, says, "Sorry.  No."

You've got to be kidding me.
"Okay.  Fine."
I completely change my signature to the one I use when I'm annoyed and hand that to him.
"Closer," he says.
I am not amused.
"What's different?" I ask.  "And, why can't I see my signature on your screen?  You've seen my photo ID.  You know I am who I say I am."
"Yes, I'm sorry.  But, we need your signatures to match."
Of course.

I sit back.  Here is the first time my changing-by-my-moods handwriting has gotten me in trouble.  Don't other people have this problem?  Why doesn't my husband's handwriting ever change?  And, what about this "loopy handwriting indicates sociopathic tendencies" article I just read?  Am I weird?  I really don't remember how I signed my name over a year ago, much less the mood I was in on that day.  I'm actually stumped.

I lean in to the counter.
"Look," I say.  "I don't remember how I signed my name a year ago.  I don't know what to do."
The man in front of me sighs, exasperated by this foreign woman whose handwriting doesn't match.
"Try again," he says, handing me another slip of paper.  I am close to yanking it out of his hand but don't.  I slowly sign my three names, a deliberate attempt to let my handwriting express my complete and utter annoyance.  He doesn't get it, of course.

I slide it across the table and sit back again, crossing my arms across my chest in defiance.  This is a challenge.  He takes a pen out of his drawer and circles two names from the first sheet and one from the second.
"This combination," he says.  "Copy these two from this paper and this one from the other."

Not feeling cooperative anymore, I take out my phone and snap photos of the two sheets with circled names.  I now have a record of how I must sign my name at this bank.  How I wish they would just let me use my stamp.

Signing again, looking at each circle and copying carefully I am done.  I pass.  Joy.

Annoyed with the bank, I leave with the thought it's that article that really nags at me.  There is no way loopy handwriting means I'm a sociopath.  I refuse to believe this article which surely was written by the same person who wrote that dream dictionary.  Careful what you read, people.  It might just ruin your mood, and we all know where that leads.

Signed,

Amya

Home again: Part Two

I'm sorry to say, I was one of those people who seriously mocked travelers who carried their pillows through airports.  I'm not talking about the pillows that fit around the neck.  I mean the pillows we sleep on at night. 

"You miss your pillow so much you can't leave home without it?"
"Do you know how dirty that pillowcase is going to be by the time you sleep on your oh-so-precious pillow?"

How many times did I cough out "loser" (to myself, of course) as I passed them at the airport gates?
I now eat my words.  Coming home and sleeping in my bed, I am now painfully aware of how important my pillow is to me.  Yes, sleeping next to my husband feeds my soul.  But, there is truly something about sleeping in my bed with my pillow that makes me cringe at the fact I made fun of those who carried their pillows from city to city.

I am sleeping deeply every night.  I know this because I am dreaming.  My dreams and I have a complicated relationship.  I have nightmares once or twice a year.  The rest of the time, I have strong and vivid dreams.  I like dreaming.  It's proof to me that I am going deep into my subconscious.  I like what I find in my dreams.  I discover meaning there.  Knowing my dreams have been incredibly intense over the past four nights since returning to Boston proves to me I'm sleeping deeply and processing.  This is good.

When the nightmares hit, I know to tell myself, in my dream, "this is a nightmare" and "it's okay to wake up."  I do wake myself up.  I leave the nightmare behind, and think of Sean Connery in his 007 gear saying things like, "Woman, you need to come with me."  Happy thoughts.  The only way I can allow myself to go back to sleep without fear of finding myself back in that nightmare is through Mr. Connery.  To whom I am very grateful, by the way. 

My husband and I, having shared the same bed for over twenty years, now also share what we call "dream transference."  If one of us has intense dreams through the night, the other usually does as well.  Is this a true psychological phenomenon?  We don't know.  We don't particularly care, either.  It's true for us.

It's not that I don't sleep well in Tokyo.  But, truly, the sleep I have had over the past four nights here in my bed and with my pillow is a much more relaxing, deeper kind of sleep, even with the dreams.

All this to say, I will no longer mock those whom I see walking through airports with their pillows, and I will be taking mine back with me to Japan.  I can't take my bed, mattress, and husband back with me, but here's to hoping I won't have to call upon 007 to rescue me from my nightmares once I return to Tokyo.  Will my pillow do the trick?  I'll let you know.