I’ve had this recurring dream since my early teens. Here’s what happens: I’m at a Duran Duran concert, squealing “Simon, I love you” (because I do love him) when all of a sudden this faceless person gives me a slip of paper, or a ticket, or some object (a magic amulet?) that indicates I can go backstage after the show to meet the band. Throughout the years, this aspect of the dream never has ceased to be thrilling, because in my heart and soul I am still the bespectacled, brace-faced band geek who expresses her Duran Duran lust by wallpapering her bedroom with posters of the band.

The dream doesn’t end there.

The show ends, my excitement builds and I run for my life to some stark white hallway where a big burly bouncer/roadie/nemesis-type awaits. Excited, goosepimply Durannies stream past this beast toward what I consider to be the Holy Grail, but I am either turned away, or sent off into some funhouse maze that leads nowhere, or asked to get the bouncer a soft drink (and when I return with the drink, the band is long gone, of course). Each time I wake up after having this dream, I think to myself, “Man, I was so close. I thought I heard Simon calling my name.”

How frustrating, right?

Well, one morning this weekend, while my daughter recounted a dream in which her head was on backwards, it dawned on me: things had changed. The burly nemesis who kept me from my backstage destiny for more than 25 years softened in his old age and let me meet the band (in my dream). It was a thrilling revelation, though I can’t for the life of me remember how it went and whether I passed out, or wept from sheer nerves or what. I can’t remember whether Simon liked me.  I can’t figure out what this dream means, or if it means anything at all. And I don’t know what happens now that I got where I wanted to go in a dream I’ve had forever.

Maybe this tale is just a gentle reminder that good things come to those who wait. I’ve never waited well, but I’m working on it and I’m hopeful.

In the meantime, October 7 can’t get here fast enough. I’ve got two tenth row seats to the Duran Duran concert in Baton Rouge and I’m ready to lose my voice singing “Rio.”