I was twenty-seven years old when I realized how close thirty was. I had told myself since I turned twenty that thirty was my new mile marker. It had been twenty, but the dreams of my teen years were pretty lame and clearly weren't working out. I had wanted to be a famous drummer, but I never set aside enough time to practice on the secondhand Ludwig set in my room. It wasn't all my fault; I couldn't play when anyone was home, but many opportunities I did have I lost to video games. If I had been more determined to achieve my dream rather than simply being attached to the idea of it, I would have found a way. My other teen dream was to get laid by Megan Huggs, and that didn't work out, either.
At twenty-seven, I had my own apartment, and I still had my drum set, though it was filthy with dust. I had nearly gotten an associate's degree in Criminal Justice, but it turned out that while I enjoyed watching television crime shows, I despised learning about actually doing it. I worked as "Collections and Recovery Specialist" for a bank, which means I called people on the phone asking for money they owed. It was sucking the life right out of me. I wasn't even good at it because on a great many calls, despite management's training intervention, I would still just apologize profusely and hang up on them. I was not motivated. I was not a team player. I did not have a positive and friendly attitude. I was not a self-starter. I was not even detail-oriented.
One morning, when my alarm went off as six for my bleary-eyed shower and cereal breakfast, I turned it off. Not snooze. Off. I didn't go back to sleep, either. What I did was ponder that in three years, I would be thirty. I also pondered that if I didn't formulate a new plan for my life, I would find myself at thirty-seven looking at forty. Then forty-seven looking at fifty. Then... well, what? Would I be looking back on my life instead of forward and wondering what I ever did? I pondered in bed for an hour as the sun rose without any answer then I must have fallen back to sleep because I dreamed.
First I dreamed I was a woman. Now get this straight: I'm not transsexual and I don't cross-dress. It was just a dream. I had just come home from shopping and I was taking off my heels and my husband and kids came to greet me. The house was spectacular, and I knew we had a maid. I was looking forward to our upcoming vacation to the Virgin Islands and the new bikini I bought. This dream was hyper-realistic, unlike my normal, bleary dreams, and it switched me smoothly into someone else. A man this time, with a beard, which I have never had because my facial hair is the sad, patchy hair of a seventeen year old. I was sitting on the porch of my cabin smoking a pipe and all was well with the world. I had a feeling of contentment I had never had in real life. My dream switched me one last time into a kid. I'm not sure if I was a boy or a girl, but, man, I had talent. I played piano and I was giving a concert in what I knew was Carnegie Hall, though I'm sure it didn't look quite like the real thing. When I finally woke it was nine and with utmost certainty I knew what my dream meant. It was a dramatic representation of change. I needed to become someone else to be happy.
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