When I was a kid I used to have dreams about flying pretty frequently. Once every two weeks, probably. That might not seem like very often, but imagine twice a month closing your eyes and being transported to a world in which you are gifted enough to soar through the sky with birds, planes and, on one inexplicable occasion, Pee-wee Herman. Instead of that recurring nightmare about having my legs eaten by a turkey-crab, on these wondrous nights I would save a group of school kids from falling off a cliff, or really show my brothers the mistake they made in choosing me last for football by flying thirty feet in the air to catch the game-saving pass. Boy, did they look stupid in front of all the girls they had ever had crushes on, who happened to be present for all of my astonishing displays. No matter the events of the dream, they would always end with me flying away from everyone on the ground, the wind in my hair, leaving behind the cries of admiration, jealousy, and awe as I sped off into the clouds… Those nights were truly the nights I was making Oprah proud. Those nights were truly the nights I was living my best life.

Maybe a year ago I had a dream in which I was planning out when I could trim my nails. No special powers. No screaming fans. No brothers getting put in their place. I wasn’t even cutting my nails in this dream. I was trying to figure out when I would have time to do it. That was the dream. From flying all over the damn sky to scheduling a nail clipping. Oprah would be so disappointed.