Yesterday morning, as I was getting out of bed, Steve said, “You were pretty funny last night.”
I always have a sinking feeling when anyone says that. College roommates, friends sharing a hotel room, partners…it’s that instant knowledge that whatever you did was so hilarious as to be completely embarrassing, while remaining totally out of your control.
If I’m going to be funny, folks, I want to be funny on purpose.
“I got in bed and you said, ‘We have to get it done!’” Steve said. “I asked you to clarify, and you just kept saying, ‘We have to get it done!’”
He demonstrated how I lay there, in my sleep, banging my hands together in pure frustration. Then he said, “Finally I apologized and asked you what, exactly, we needed to get done.”
“What did I say?” I asked, figuring it would be something related to work. I’m prone to dreaming about my job—my mental to-do list doesn’t take a rest just because I’m asleep.
“You said, ‘We have to repot the plants.’”
“That’s right,” Steve said. “You told me we have to repot the plants.”
This does not bode well for the summer.