Me and Obama

About 4AM this morning, I had a dream that I met Obama outside a tavern of some sort and, well, basically, yeah, he blew me off. That’s not a good way to start the day, is it? Man. I spent the next couple of hours trying to complete the narrative in a way that made sense, i.e. made him sorry he’d hurt my feelings.

Before he shut me down, I had addressed him as “Obama” and not “Mr. President.” Maybe it was that. Or maybe he was just distracted. He seemed distracted.

I constructed this after-story where I said something really sad and passive aggressive under my breath about how maybe I didn’t matter because I was middle class and his aide heard me and told him and then Obama sent me this really apologetic, nice letter. It was like that fantasy you have when your 10th-grade crush ignores you in the hall and then goes home and writes you a song and calls and then invites you to prom because he realizes he’s been a cad and didn’t notice the shining light of your inner beauty. Like that only with the President.

He did write that sweet, “Please excuse…” note to that one kid’s teacher when she missed class to go to one of his town hall meetings. (Photo from The Big Picture.) He might write me a letter. It could happen.

I think it was because I said something awkward about Nantucket. Maybe it was that.