Talking with Michael Jordan and Alicia Florrick (In my dreams. It’s not like I know them or anything.)

Lately I’ve been waking up and having a hard time shaking off my dream world. No trouble shaking off sleep, just a hard time finding my way to reality.

Maybe it’s because I’m sleeping like someone’s nine month old. I sleep blissfully for four or five hours and then I’m bright eyed and bushy tailed (keep your double entendres to yourself). So, I reach for my iPad and read the New York Times. If I’m lucky, I can drift back to sleep for another hour.

I think they call this menopause. From reading my Facebook newsfeed I can see that I’m not alone in this game of sleep.

It’s that last lucky hour of sleep that draws me in to dreamland. I have a great time during that hour, with a host of characters. I frequently talk with Julianna Margulies, usually in her role as Alicia Florrick. Sometimes we talk about Will and Mr. Big (he’ll never be Peter to me), but usually it’s about parenting and career.

I believe that Alica Florrick is a gift given to middle aged women by the television gods. They don’t give many gifts to our age group, so I’m especially grateful for this one, for this woman. This woman has stepped into the world in a full-on power mode, kicking two powerful men to the ground. I have nothing against men, but neither of these guys really understood that Alicia wasn’t theirs to control and direct.

In her wake are two mostly grown children that she has raised while opting out of the 15 most important years of a career, the building stage. And, she’s proud of those kids and she owns those 15 years at home. Owns em like a boss. Alicia Florrick has no regrets and she’s not going to apologize.

But I digress….

This morning I woke up talking with Michael Jordan, a different sort of hero. He’s just the greatest basketball player of all time. I have his image seared in my mind: airborne, pivoting away from the basket, then tilting toward it, then dumping the ball through it. He did more work in midair for 30 seconds than most of us do on the ground for 15 minutes.

And I, well I don’t want to brag here, but I spent quite a bit of time this morning talking with him about snacks. Saltines, to be exact. You may not think there’s much to say about them, but you’d be wrong.

I told him the little known fact that they can go bad. I discovered this over the holidays. Right after knee surgery I wanted soup and saltines, something to go down easy. My daughter brought me an unopened stack of crackers, I put one in my mouth and spit it back onto the plate. It was the most disgusting thing I’ve had in my mouth since putting spoiled milk on my cereal.

It turns out, those use by dates are meant to be taken seriously. Our saltines were meant to have been used by 10/2012. Maybe we could have given or taken a few months, but a few years was too much. Awful.

So, I guess I was explaining this to a strangely engaged Michael Jordan.

I think it was halfway through my shower, the part where I aim the spray, as hot as I can get it, right on my knee when I realized the conversation was over.

Here’s Neil Young to explain better than I can:

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