Glenda

The other night I had a dream about a girl I went to high school with. I'll call her Glenda, after the good witch in The Wizard of Oz. She was perfect: gorgeous, thin, popular. In real life, not just my dream world. In real life, I wanted to be Glenda with her naturally blond hair, tiny waist, white-toothed smile, ease in finding bathing suits, litany of boyfriends and grace in gym class.

In my dream, I had a chance to tell Glenda just that: that all those years ago I wanted to be her. Glenda's face lit up with surprised delight. (She was also modest and had no idea how the rest of us struggled to achieve even a single ounce of her effortless perfection). Her wind-chime of a laugh tinkled out of her and floated around us like tiny bubbles, such was her effervescence.

"I'm having a party," she said and handed me an invitation. My heart soared. It was my very own After School Special. Glenda was inviting ME to a party.



As I peered down, I noticed she had misspelled the word "arriving" on the invitation. Ariving. Suddenly it mattered less to me that I never was able to pass the Presidential Fitness Test in gym. I felt a rush of smugness. Poor Glenda. Poor idiot Glenda.

The next morning my inflated sense of superiority had vanished and taken my deflated sense of self with it. We all have our problems. We all have our assets. We are none of us perfect. And, when all was said and done, I was OK being me.

The next morning I felt a little like Dorothy as I realized that perfection itself was the dream.

It took me years, but I'm glad I woke up.