I dreamt I was Michelle Obama’s personal assistant.

It was so vivid that I remember the details of her bedroom, or whosever bedroom we were chatting in. She was lying stomach down on the bed propped up by her elbows, intently listening to me as I sat on the carpet in front of her.

“So Jeremy’s been asking about being baptized,” she starts.

“Yes, on a regular basis,” I tell the First Lady. “We’re answering his questions, but we’re waiting until he really understands.”

“Yes, that’s wise,” she counsels me. “You know, when Malia was baptized…”

I don’t hear her answer because I heard the door open in the adjacent sitting room. It’s the President. He’s in a navy suit, white shirt and blue tie, carrying his jacket over to an arm chair to set it down. He’s oblivious to me and doesn’t even look our way, even though I’m discussing my child’s eternal salvation with his wife.

I turn back to Michelle and she’s staring at me like it’s my turn to speak. I don’t know the last thing she said to me so I say nothing.

Then my alarm goes off.

I quickly analyzed my dream because it seemed real, as if I actually lived in those few minutes. I have no proof that I was actually her assistant, but that’s what it felt like. While this dream was odd on many levels, the ironic thing is that my actual boss’s name is, in fact, Michele.

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