Am I dying or getting famous?

Am I dying or getting famous?

Last night I dreamed of my mother.

We were in the front foyer of her New Jersey split-level bungalow.

“I’m just going to Costco to get you a coffin, do you need anything else?”

she offhandedly mentioned, as she squeezed past me in the hallway, jacket on and car keys in hand.

“wait, what? You’re what?”

She repeated herself nonchalantly and, while rambling off other potential purchases, including water filters and dog poop bags,  distinctly pointed out, at least 3 times, that the coffin was bamboo.

I assumed it was the aesthetic that was inspiring the purchase, as if they might run out of stock quickly, so she should jump on it.

And while it didn’t exactly comfort me, it did make it seem a teeny tiny bit less weird?

I mean, how often does Costco have tiki inspired caskets on sale?

But when I woke up from this dream and recounted it to Joanne, she responded by saying,

“I hope they really start doing that, bamboo regenerates so much faster than pine, mahogany and walnut.”

Which led me then to wonder if it was in fact just an environmental matter for my mother, which then begged the question…

Why was she only buying one…?

And why was it for me…?

Why not also for my siblings, her husband or even herself?

Her husband who, for the sake of my dream, had been replaced by a young body-building personal trainer who was wearing a rainbow of resistance bands, like a necklace around his neck, and planning our circuit for that afternoon, in the staircase.

It’s probably worth noting also that with each exercise that he had me add to the dry-erase board, he would inject me in the arm with a needle, without explanation.

The work-out looked terribly difficult even for somebody who isn’t disabled – yes, I’m calling myself names now, because this is my current reality, and handicap-able is not at all how I feel at the moment; angry-disabled though; absolutely.

I digress.

The work out looked daunting; to the point even, that I was somewhat relieved that it was on hold while my mother ran out to purchase my coffin. Minus the coffin part of course.

This morning, I went through all the recent interactions I have had, that might possibly explain the inspiration for this dream.

I did talk to my boxing trainer yesterday, and she does use a white-board to write her circuit training workouts on at the gym.

I did talk to my other trainer yesterday also, who happens to use (perhaps to an excess) a lot of resistance bands in our sessions these days. She recommended drinking cat-nip tea for improved sleep, but never mentioned anything about injecting it…

Did anyone say anything to me about bamboo at all? Needles? Costco? South Pacific decor? Cultural appropriation?

Am I dying?

Am I the first ever human to suffer a fatal Iliotibial band injury?

“No, noooo” Joanne reassured me. “Dreams about dying are often about a re-birth of some sort”.

I was doubtful at first, but it’s true, I did recently launch a new business,  and my comedy career is finally moving forward.

I have been making a concerted effort to pull myself out of a limping, hobbling,  self-pitying state to focus on rehabilitation, recovery and healing.

I mean, it’s possible this is about growth, a new chapter of my life, a new life even…

After a few cleansing breaths and a quick wade through a couple of cups of coffee, I opened up instagram to find that I have a new follower:



Thankfully, I’m not a celebrity, or this would have terrified me, only confirming my fear that last night’s dream was an omen or premonition, a message from the goddess, if you will.


JESUS! OF COURSE. It absolutely terrified me. It’s clearly a sign, I’m obviously dying and the only consolation is knowing that at least I’m going to be famous when it happens.

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