Dream Log: Joining the FBI; and Elizabeth Banks

I dreamed that I had joined the FBI, or was in training in hopes of eventually joining the FBI. All of us trainees lived in a dorm. Everyone associated with the training facility, trainees, trainers and administration, all dressed in the stereotypical FBI outfit: black suit, white shirt, black necktie, black shiny shoes. We were all dressed like that all of the time, including during our firearms training, physical conditioning -- long runs and obstacles courses -- and martial-arts training.

Except that I didn't have the shiny black shoes. Instead, I was wearing old sneakers, one with a white shoelace and the other with a black shoelace. I tried to be casual about it and pretend that there was nothing unusual about my shoes, but the trainers made snarky remarks about old beat-up shoes, without ever referring specifically to me, but I felt ostracized.

Finally, one of the trainers came up to me and told me that my shoes were non-regulation. I replied that the sneakers gave me good traction when I was running and chasing someone. The trainer bent a leg so that the sole of one of his shoes was showing. He pointed to the sole and told me that FBI agents wore shoes with soles that gave just as much traction as any shoes'.

Eventually I began to feel overwhelmed. Besides my embarrassment over my shoes, the pace of the training began to overwhelm me physically. (Not surprising, considering that I am 56 years old.) I approached the trainer who had told me that I was wearing the wrong shoes, and told him that I couldn't keep up and wanted to quit. I repeated this several times, but the trainer kept turning away and ignoring me. Finally he took a cell phone from a pocket and made a call. I couldn't hear what he was saying. Then a woman came into the room where the other trainees were doing martial-arts exercises. Unlike everyone else in our suits, she was wearing an all-white outfit, short-sleeved shirt, slacks and shoes, like a nurse or some other worker at a hospital might wear. She looked like Elizabeth Banks. The trainer looked at her and gestured at me and walked away.

The woman led me to a chair, told me to sit down and take off my suit-jacket and shirt. I still had a white T-shirt on. She began to massage my arms and hands. She was very skilled at that, and I felt great waves of tension leaving me. Another woman joined us, also dressed in a white nurse's outfit, and took over the arms-and-hands massage, while the woman who looked like Elizabeth Banks began to massage my scalp.

I began to reconsider whether I wanted to quit the FBI. I also began to wonder whether I would get more pleasant treatment if I continued to complain about not being able to do what the other, younger recruits were doing. Than I woke up.