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I had a dream last night, which I won’t go into for what should be obvious reasons, a dream that made me think. And one of the things I thought about was:

   Just how old was I in that dream?

I certainly wasn’t forty-seven.

How old am I in my dreams? Somewhere between twenty-four and thirty-three. Never older and rarely younger. And I’m not just talking about the pornographic ones.

Unless, of course, you consider those I’m-wearing-no-pajama-bottoms-in-class-AND-I-haven’t-studied-for-this-exam dreams pornographic.

I don’t dream about childhood–I barely remember it–or my teens and I never see myself older than I am or even the age I am.

Does this mean it’s been downhill since twenty-eight? On a logarithmic curve, twenty-three?

Several years ago, I had one of those OH-MY-GOD-there’s-an-exam-and-I-haven’t-been-to-class-all-semester dreams. It was a recurring dream. It was getting annoying. And then, in my dream, I said, “F^ck this. I’ll take it next semester.” and woke up. That dream hasn’t bothered me since.