I dream of Seaborn.
In the last two years, I’ve had a lot of dreams about aging, and the anxiety around it: finding myself having to return to high school (and trying to look the part), to my hair and teeth falling out. When I began telling my shrink about these dreams, he urged me to write them down. Here’s the latest.
I was working at the White House. CJ was talking about the job I’d been doing: a temporary assignment as a manager of White House staff and coordinator of events: a position traditionally held by a bookkeeper. She announced that a man had inquired about the job, and everyone gasped, including me, because the man was the equivalent to Martha Stewart. After the press conference, I wandered the halls, deep in thought. I went to see the president, who, in a show of transparency to the people, had moved his Oval Office operations into a common lobby area of the White House. Tours walked by and could see him doing his day to day business. It was Barack Obama. I waited in line to talk to Barack about the new development when I ran into CJ.
“Tough break,” she said, “but you can always dig up stuff on the guy on Juice It. You’ll find something there.” She departed and the president, for whom I’d been waiting, had to dash off to other business. I walked the halls, and ran into Leo. We sat in his office.
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