School Dance

Last night I dreamed I was a high school junior. I was standing in front of the DJ at a dance I had organized for the school. It was a formal event, so I was wearing a gown—but it didn’t fit me at all. I kept adjusting the top of it—which hung like a toga—while I lamented not having developed breasts. I must have gotten the dress from my mother’s closet (with or without her permission, the dream didn’t say.) I was still a boy. I was holding a cordless microphone, trying to get my peers’ attention. I had note cards prepared.

“I want everyone to have a great time tonight,” I said. But they didn’t acknowledge me. The DJ was gearing up something by TLC. I gave him the microphone back and stood off to the side of the dance floor.

Yes, I wanted everyone to have a great time—that was true. But more than anything I wanted them to thank me for the great time. That’s why I had organized this whole event. I even managed to come under budget on the decorations.

The dream ended before anyone could thank me. No one even asked me to dance—and it was my dream!

Had the dream continued, I probably would have spent the night checking on the punch and talking to teachers.

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