Sweet Dreams Are Made of This??

           This is going to be a bit of a stretch.  It probably isn't Everyman's dream.  Maybe not even Every-other-man's dream.  The only hope is that it's more than just a dream for a party of two,  because its theme is one borne of a certain misery that loves beau-coups company.
           The stretch requires the reader's willingness to put reality into cold storage, inasmuch as this is a requisite for most all dream experience.  Now relax, but please don't close your eyes...at least while reading this self-inflicted expose.
             It happened in the wee-small hours of June 5, 2011.  Yours truly had nodded off, and was subsequently approached by one of his two dearest chums in high school, whose name happens to be Ben.  (Surname withheld to protect the innocent)
             "Have you finished your writing assignment for Mr. Vittitoe?"  -That Ben was not in my senior English class did not arrest the development of this dream.-  "No", I replied while staggering to recover from this blindside, "what was it?"  "Well," he advised with a "tsk-tsk" look in his eyes, "we were supposed to write a one-page essay on the most embarrasing thing that ever happened to us." 
                "D.C.B." allowed further that this assignment was due in twenty minutes, when our class was scheduled to meet.  This was cruel and inhuman treatment of the worst kind.  How could a pillar of Palo Alto High academia subject his students to such a topic?! High school has enough attendant embarrassment without having to present an assignment that was destined to plaster a bullseye on my backside, in full view of classmates.
                After a moment of elapsed Dream Standard Time, I decided to write a piece on a typewriter (conveniently provided) about sitting for a Sociology III essay final exam, after having missed all but the last week of class.  Yikes!  This actually was a real-time happening for yours truly. (ed. note #1: if you discern an anchronism....3rd term Sociology is a college level course....bear in mind that dreams do hold to a different standard of credibility,

dictated by the dreamer.)
             I can allow now, in the winter of life, that this wasn't the most embarrassing experience of my callow, adolescent youth, but it was "socially safe".  Thank heaven it was an essay test, and that I had a "bs" degree before I earned my BS degree, and received a reality-based C+ for my final grade.
              However..... the knowledge that I had dodged a bullet that should have nailed my scholastic hide to the wall has left a long-lasting impression on my psyche.  It has been forty years since I sat for my last post-grad exam in statistics.  Far longer still since the last time I reached down for some mojo to carry me through a test that I went into with the tank empty.

            Yet, with the predictability of  moon phases, once a month in morning's dark hours, I find myself re-visiting a moment of truth, where I must answer up to Mr. Vittitoe's outstretched hand, or an empty blue book, or a multiple-choice answer sheet, totally unprepared.

                    The funny/peculiar thing about this dream is that when Dear Chum Ben mentioned the due time for this assignment, subconsciously I knew that this couldn't be, because June 5th fell on a Sunday!  This realization prompted me to awaken; relieved, but in a cold sweat.
                     During years I spent teaching in the classroom, I came down with a heavy red pen on kids who, in concluding a creative writing assignment, would try to resolve a hopelessly implausible story-line by saying, "......and then, I woke up....."
                   Now, I'm left wondering, is this persistent dream experience a symptom of ying-yang, or a mutant strain of Karma?  One or the other has me by the collar.

HLR
(ed. note #2: I'll reserve, for future reference, my "back-up" dream, in which I try valiantly to maintain dignity and demeanor in front of my 7th grade students, while one-by-one, every article of clothing I'm wearing disappears.)