All dreams are valid. From the fat slovenly lazy slob who hopes to be on the cover of Sports Illustrated one day to the down-on-his-luck hustler who hopes to marry a Kardashian. Regardless of how ludicrous or unbelievable it may seem, there is no limit to where our imagination can take us but that’s where it ends. There’s a very long process between converting imaginations to reality and frankly, most dreamers aren’t too keen on making that trek. Mostly because it is a physical and certain impossibility. The worst kind of impossibility.

Now I have countless crazy dreams. I sing like a frog that’s recently had multiple shots of battery acid. But I hope to be on a rock star’s stage one day. I don’t care if I am not the centre of attention. All I want is to belt out some tunes with Aerosmith. I have no clue how this will happen. I am only hoping it will someday.

These are probably the activities that should be included on a bucket list rather than a 5 year business plan. I want to cook with Gordon Ramsey. I’ve never had any formal culinary training. I want to drag race with Lewis Hamilton. I have an expired driver’s license as we currently speak. I want to be asked by Anna Wintour to be on the cover of Vogue for reasons even I can’t think of. But it’s Vogue. Every woman wants to be on Vogue or Cosmo or Elle or Vanity Fair. Hell, I’ll even settle for True Love.

I want to be confused for Beyoncé. Yes, I am shorter than her. But these recesses of the mind are not subject to logic. They only answer to desire. Warped yearnings of the psyche which are as difficult to explain as a fat woman who has a gym trainer for a husband.

I want to be a ubiquitous VIP although I am unclear as to what the importance will be. I want to be that person who gets the promotional VIP tickets to events and who gets to sit two or three rows behind the president at a very glitzy gala. I want to be that individual that never has to line up at banks or airports. Like a dignitary’s aide or something.

All these are perks that I haven’t worked for and can’t even work for and I still want them. Now I am not stupid. I am not banging my head against a wall hoping to be cleverer. That doesn’t work. You only get a nasty headache. Neither does sleeping with an encyclopaedia next to your head so you never have to study again. I am not hoping to lose weight while the only exercise I get is three flights of stairs every morning. No, I am not that person that is hoping to make all my dreams come true by trying my hand at the Sportpesa jackpot every week. I am just that girl that hopes to be a brand ambassador for Colgate because I have the most adorable smile spotted in town that day.

I want to be seen in a magazine as an example of jaded sophistication, style and fashion. I’m not even sure what jaded sophistication is. I read it the style section of a fashion magazine. I want to be in a restaurant and stumble into Alfred Mutua then he offers to pay for my lunch. I want to get paid for being myself for whatever situation. I want to be a delightful trend for a week like a kitten on a rumba or a talking dog.

No, I don’t spend a lot of time thinking about these things. They just happen to occur when I am out experiencing other things. While I’m experiencing, this occurred, I want a copy of an original unedited manuscript by Edgar Allan Poe, Agatha Christie and/or Sidney Sheldon. If a benevolent book collector is looking to redistribute his or her library for free please know I am very willing to accept your altruism.

Now, we all have to be serious at least seven hours a day. Another seven will be spent eating, talking and being partially serious. The other hours spent just before the time allocated for sleep can be used to entertain a daydream or two. It’s not unhealthy. I don’t know if it’s healthy. But I know everyone in a situation like mine has those brief delusions of grandeur and fabulousness. Now tell me you can’t see me guest star on the first episode of a Sex and The City Netflix reboot. Hey, my dreams are valid.



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