I rarely remember my dreams, but when I do they are fantastical. My dreams are exceptionally vivid or banal but somehow revelatory. Sometimes I dream of my late parents and I choose to believe that they are letting me know they are keeping an eye on things.  While working for decades as a server/bartender, my sleep cycle regularly included a specific stress dream. Unwelcome and unpleasant, my colleagues called it a “waitermare.” Typically this dream would feature a scenario wherein I navigate spectacular obstacles to complete a service-related task. For example, I attempt to cross a busy multi-lane highway with a tray full of drinks or I am made to snake through an enormous, pulsing crowd with hot plates piled up and down both arms, searching for my section. Serving is taxing work which calls for physical and social hardiness over long hours. In all work, as most of us know, the strain of full-time hours can bleed into even the sanctuary of REM.