Beatlemania

I woke up cranky, having hit the snooze bar a half dozen times. I am struggling to finish the project description for another post-doc application, which is not unusual, because these things always take me a hundred times longer than they should. But this new project is also worrying me, because of a dramatic leap it makes from part one to part two. Was I crazy when I suggested that leap in the first go-round? (The round that got me the job I have now?) If I was able to coax so many people to approve the leap then, why do I find it more difficult to justify now?

"So, in my dream this morning, the tiny Beatles came to help me."

Adam is fixing the lamp over my computer. "Tiny beetles? That's a neat idea," he says kindly. He is accustomed to my nutty dreams by now, and, gentle spouse that he is, always affirms them.

But I can hear in his voice that he's misunderstood. "Not beetles. Beatles. As in, JohnPaulGeorgeandRingo. Only they were tiny. Like.... un-formed yet. Looking like grown-ups, but also very, very small."

"Oh. Beatles," says Adam, waiting for the punch line.

"I asked them to help me with the leap in my application. And Paul told me, sorry, but the project wouldn't work. John told me the project would be beautiful, and that he would write some lyrics about it and they would open my mind. And George Harrison didn't speak at all. He just cried."

"In my "guitar-gently-weeping" way?" asks Adam, helpfully.

"No. Because he was sad for what was happening to the planet."

"And Ringo?"

My brow furrows. I can't remember.

"I don't think Ringo showed up for work."