I’m unaccustomed to sleeping on my back.

In my dream last night, I was flat on my back inside a brightly lit tube that might have been a tanning bed except that I knew it was an MRI scanner.  Physically paralyzed but comfortably, pleasantly limp, I gazed upward at my reflection in the mirrored metallic cylinder. 

My eyes were, as things tend to be in dreams, unaffected by the glaring white lights that flashed from above my head and at my feet.  Presumably part of the mechanics of whatever test or screening I was in for.

I could see myself dressed in a tank top and underwear and I could see, thought the angle wouldn’t have allowed for it in reality, that my toenails were painted.  I had a pronounced tan line across my thighs. 

I said out loud, “I usually just burn.”  My voice echoed, either reverberating inside the scanner or warbling through layers of subconsciousness.

I hoped the paleness of my skin wouldn’t be exaggerated when the film was developed.

I woke up in bed in just that same position with a pillow stuffed under my knees.  My back has been bothering me.  I could probably use an MRI, I decided.  Maybe the dream was premonitory.  Then I looked down at my bare legs and realized I could probably use a little time in a tanning bed, too.

I’m not any good at sharing. 

It’s mostly little things: peanut butter M&M’s, the purple beads in the Arts and Crafts bucket, the good pens in the supply cabinet at work.  I hoard little things like that and sometimes I don’t even realize that I’m doing it until I have a pocketful that I hope nobody will notice.  I used to hide an extra fudgesicle up my sleeve after lunch and take the long way back to the cabin so my campers wouldn’t see.  I write my name on cans of Diet Coke in the office fridge—with one of the good pens.

I’ve been trying to keep it a secret for ten years, since I wouldn’t give Chelsea one of my crackers in the carpool ride to our tennis lesson.  She looked at me sideways across the back seat of Mrs. Doran’s truck and said, “I think you’re a bad sharer.”  There was disbelief in her voice, and defiance, as though she was being forced to taste something she knew she wouldn’t like.

I didn’t give her a cracker and I didn’t say anything for the rest of the ride.  Just forced the rest of my snack down and hid the balled up plastic baggie in one of the pockets inside my gym bag.  Ever since, I’ve been covering.  I share when asked and I try to veil any reluctance, just hope nobody reads it—selfishness—on my face. 

I think I’m a bad sharer and I don’t know how I got away with it for so long, through grade school without a “U” for “Unsatisfactory” on my progress report card, all the way into adulthood.  And now I wonder if it’s not too late to learn.  I’d have to really want to, at this point, because nobody supervises 24-year-olds to make sure they’re sharing and taking turns.  I don’t think it’s one of the skills assessed in your annual review. 

I mean, maybe it should be.

So, I have a six-pack of Diet Coke under my desk right now, and there are five people in my department.  Before I put them in the fridge, I’m going to label one for each of us and for once, I’m going to write somebody else’s name on the extra can. 

I’m going to try to be a better sharer.  I’m going to try.  What more do you want from me?

Don’t say a peanut butter M&M.

One of my all-time favorite scenes from Friends is at the beginning of “The One With Rachel’s Sister” when Ross, Rachel, Phoebe, Joey, Monica and Chandler are assembled in Monica and Chandler’s apartment and they’re surprised when someone knocks on the door. They all react wordlessly with perplexed expressions. Phoebe takes a quick roll, pointing to everyone, including herself, to make sure nobody is missing. Chandler looks a little wary as he answers the door.

I expected there to be so much more door knocking in my New York life. I expected to perfect the sitcom glance through the peephole and I totally expected to get the chance to answer the door like a character in a drama—peering hopefully through the peephole, hesitating with my hand on the door knob, taking a deep breath before opening the door to reveal . . . the person everyone in the audience expected to be standing out in the darkly lit hallway.

The front doorbell and buzzer isn’t nearly as good a plot device, I know.

But it’s how we answer the door in real life. No surprises. I have a stairwell climb to prepare for even unexpected guests and then I beat them to the door, sticking my head out before they make it to the top of the stairs, like I’m impatient. It’s sort of like opening a gift and preparing myself to look thrilled even if I hate it. Like, “Oh! It’s . . . you. Just like on the intercom. Come on in.”

I always start to feel like this on Sunday evenings, like I’m anticipating something without knowing what. I guess it’s because the weekend is over and I can’t helping wondering, “wait, that’s it? No cliff-hanger? No twist? There’s gotta be a twist. Give me something to get me through the next week!”

Maybe that’s why they run Talk Sex with Sue Johanson every Sunday night.