According to the book of Genesis, an Egyptian Pharaoh had two troubling dreams – one about seven fat and seven skinny cows and another about seven full heads of grain growing on a single stalk. Luckily, he found someone who could make sense of weird dreams. If not for his technicolor dream coat coming to the rescue, Joseph would have remained in prison and never become Pharaoh’s second in command. Egypt’s seven-year drought would have been a disaster.

I’m no Joseph. But, I have risen to second in command around my household. And, as it was for Pharaoh, troubling dreams seem plentiful. At around three in the morning years ago, I was positioned at the foot of the bed on hands and knees, rocking back and forth while someone struggled to keep their head above swirling waters below. As luck would have it, lifeguarding class from high school kicked in. I knew just what to do. One final crouched position enabled launching myself off the bed before landing chest-first on the floor, knocking the wind out of me. Suddenly I was the one who couldn’t breathe and was in need of rescue.

Since in my twenties, dreams have included arrival for final exams but unable to find the classroom or a pencil to mark down answers. Similarly, I have turned up for Minot Symphony performances before realizing I forgot to bring my instrument, the music or to put my trousers on. By the time I find some pants and return to the scene of the crime, the concert is over and auditorium empty. On other nights, I have arrived at work to find the office full of teenagers with braces in need of attention but no staff to help get the job done.

Visiting one of our adult children a short time ago, a Netflix production was dialed up to cap off the evening after grandchildren were tucked into bed. The show was billed as the roast of a legendary sports figure who is considered “The GOAT” (Greatest Of All Time) in his sport. It was reminiscent of the television roasts Dean Martin hosted in the ’70s with Dom Deloise, Foster Brooks, Don Rickles, Phyllis Diller, Norm Crosby and others in some, but not all, respects. Bob Hope would have never used such language.

We crawled into bed well after my bedtime. “It must be quite a feeling to be considered the very best at what you do,” I said to Rita.

“You’ve always done the best you could at whatever you’ve tried,” she countered. Her comment wasn’t entirely uplifting. Eyes glazing over, I drifted off to Never Never Land.

Eventually my dream-machine fired up with a variation on its favorite theme. This time, I was gathered with classmates from school days long ago for a reunion. It was nice that so many would show up for my long-deserved GOAT roasting. I worked my way through the unfamiliar multitude of classmates and fans toward where the stage was surely waiting. But, not only was there no stage, none of those in attendance were eager to shake my hand or even notice me. Then I spotted Dwight Schrute from the television show “The Office.” He looked my way, lifted his arm bent at the elbow, karate chopped his hand downward and uttered, “Shunned.”

Morning light rescued me from slumber. I sat up looking for comfort after the night’s traumatic drubbing as a nobody. “You’re not going to believe my dream this time,” I said to Rita. “I was supposed to be roasted as ‘the greatest of all time.’ But, nobody there even talked to me.”

“Pretty sure you are confused.” Rita replied. “It was probably a GLOAT roast, not GOAT roast.”

“What’s a GLOAT roast?”

“It roasts the ‘Generally Laziest of All Time,'” she said. “Don’t forget – you promised to clean out the garage six months ago.” Rita has no shortage of coats. I just didn’t realize she had one of the technicolor dream variety.