I broke my arm on July 7 this year. I’m healing fine but am thwarted by the inconvenience. My dream subconscious response amused me.
I was with other people. My arm was broken and in a white cast. Sitting and chatting with others on a round plaza outside, I was dressed in black pants and shirt, and enjoying myself. I noticed a tall, bald black man working his way through the crowd. Like me, he was dressed in black pants and shirt.
As he closed, our eyes met. I said, “Hi, how’s it going?”
“Pretty good, you?”
“Good.” He was standing beside me now. “How’s your arm?”
I held it up. “Broken.”
“I know. I’m here to fix it.”
“It’s fixed. It’s healing.”
“How ’bout if I give you a new arm?”
He grinned. “How ’bout if I give you one of mine?”
“That’s generous of you, but don’t you need it?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll grow another.”
“Well, no offense, but your arm is black. I’d have one black arm and one white one.”
“So? It’ll change.” He pulled his arm off and stuck it on my shoulder.
(I’ve thought a lot about this, and I don’t recall him removing my arm first.)
I was standing by then, holding my new arm out. It was white, just like the other one.
Giving me a side look, he said. “You’re always worrying about the wrong things.”