I Dreamed I Was Naked

This is not really me.
I wouldn't own a trashy
designer bag like that.

A curious thing happened last night. I dreamed I was naked.

 

Not an I’m-sexy-and-I-know-it-dream. But an Oh-shit—I’m-wearing-only-a-bath-towel-and- I’m-about-to-meet-the-president-of-the-United-States-in-the-oval-office-dream!

 You know. One of those.

Normally, I’d chalk it up to too many episodes of Orange is the New Black, but not this time.

You see, my life has changed irrevocably, and I mean that in the most government-speak way.

I retired eleven days ago after 29 selfless years toiling away for the people of the great state of California. (Cue the marching band.)

 There’s no going back, and I can’t help but wonder what my life will look like for the next several decades, provided I’m not cut down in my prime by a runaway wheelchair.

Oh, sure. I have my plans, but I’ve always had plans. Will I end up a fan of Live with Kelly and Michael (A pretty good show that I watched for the first time this morning, god help me.)? Maybe I’ll become a gold member of the Bus Trips to Branson Club (I don’t think that exists, but someone more industrious than I is welcome to run with it.)

Anyway, back to the dream. Noble people, selfless people dream of Africa or of human equality. Not me. According to Dream Moods.com dreams of nudity mean either:

1.    I’m ashamed and unprepared. Yeah. Duh. Read previous paragraph and all previous posts.

2.    My fears are unfounded. Please, please, be this one.

If plans go as, well, planned, I’ll be writing more of these posts (sorry), and if you stick with it, you’ll be treated to the likes of:

• If You Board a Plane Pantless: the Lighter Side of Alzheimer’s
• There’s a Rat in My Unit
• Bad Moon Rising Over a Shuttle Bus in Vegas
• Confessions of a 59-Year-Old Virgin

I hope you stayed tuned.