I’m on the tram, heading to my gate, where there is a plane that will fly me to San Francisco. We arrive at Concourse D. As I shuffle towards the double doors, I glance for a moment at the mirror at the end of the car. It is a large mirror. I can’t see my reflection. I panick.
My mind races through several sinister theories.
Theory #1: I am a ghost.
Theory #2: I have become a Nosferatu.
Theory #3: The tram passed through a pocket of radiation that has caused every atom in my body to vibrate at astounding speeds, rendering me both invisible and intangible.
Theory #4: The mirror is actually a window.
Theory #5: I have finally mastered the ancient mystical art of astral projection.
Theory #6: This is all just a dream.
I get off the tram and immediately find a bathroom. I look in a mirror and see my reflection. And it is handsome.
That rules out theories 1,2,5, and 6.
I rather like the idea of being intangible.
This blog post was composed and posted on a telephone.
That most likely rules out the third theory.
Rats.
The Ring-a-Ding Kid 