Here it is: I'm squarely in my mid-seventies. Today.
Happy Birthday to Me.
Last night I dreamt I was pretending I was some sort of doctor or scientist at a workshop - we all had to participate in the cooking and cleaning up, and although I'd just arrived, I was assigned at the last minute to prepare a gourmet dish.
People were outperforming each other for culinary speed and virtuosity in the large collective space, and were proving that they were skilled above and beyond their prestigious professional credentials.
I was cooking cauliflower (?brain?) in a tasteless broth, and scrambling for other ingredients to add pizzazz, or at least something. A clever woman with lots of letters after her name was grilling cutlets on her own, not bothering with the collective efforts, and I had to admire her: plus where did she get the personal cutlets? Had she smuggled them in with her running shoes?
And there I was, with the false trappings of a profession I never entered and struggling with a smelly vegetable. Ignominious or what?
So there it is.
I'm still narrating Dream Tales of the Ego to my subconscious and losing out as an impostor.
What will I be in my dreams when I turn 80?
A geneticist? A charismatic cult leader? A garden-variety psychic? Simply 80?
