This morning, I discover my Inner Comedienne in the lotus position on my dining room table.
It is 5:30 a.m, the witching hour for my creative thinking. She is looking rather zen for a clown, with eyes closed, deep in thought. She appears to be channeling her Inner Steve Jobs.
IC has ditched her usual rainbow wig in favor of a flashy pink bob and donut headband, as one does in a country where good donuts simply do not exist. If you were not yet aware, England is more or less donut purgatory. But my Inner Comedienne is all about imagining the impossible.
“Is that really you?” I ask, “It’s been, what, two years?”
“It has,” she replies with a sage nod. “But who wanted to talk about politics or Covid? Not me, that’s for sure. You with your vaccinations and your masks, if you ask me, you can keep the whole lot.”
“It’s not like we had much of a choice. But it’s good to see you again, IC. What have you been up to?”
“Time travel,” she says, still not opening her eyes. “I’ve been wandering around in our embryonic past. Hope you don’t mind.”
“By all means,” I say, “wander all you like.”
“I went all the way back to the moon landing. 1969. You probably don’t remember it.”
“I do, actually,” I reply, though admittedly, I was four at the time and probably owe much of my memory to Wikipedia and old news footage.
“They put people on the moon with slide rules and manual calculations. Crazy.”
“It was,” I admit. “We’ve come a long way.”
“And here they are wanting to shoot us all into the metaverse. How’s that going to work?”
“Um, I don’t think that’s precisely what they’ve got planned-“
“What do you know, anyway?” she snaps, fixing me with a quick glare. “We barely survived the 70’s, what with your hormones, bellbottoms, and coke-bottle glasses. And all that polyester!” She shudders delicately, forgetting that her actual ensemble, including hair, is made up of mostly polyester. “The ONLY good thing to come out of that decade was glittery makeup. And you never even saw your first computer before you were 14.”
She is right. It was an enormous heap of beige plastic, a half-mile of mysterious cables, and a screen the size of a postage stamp in the back of Mr. Blue’s Algebra class. I grin at the memory. “It was awesome!”
“It was junk. And, looking back, you really could have worked harder on your hair in the mornings before school. What was with the ponytail?”
“What’s wrong with ponytails?
“To be precise, you are not a horse. Neither are you a kebab,” she adds, noting the cocktail skewers I have shoved in my hair to keep it in place.
I roll my eyes. My Inner Comedienne is hardly one to be lecturing me on my physical appearance. Such as it is. “So what’s all this about? Who invited you this morning, anyway?” I have to ask. HH is stirring above stairs, and his tolerance for early morning crazy is somewhat limited.
“I should think it was obvious,” she sniffs, stretching and yawning. “We’re clearly going to have to move.”
“Move?” I ask with not a little sense of alarm. “Move where?”
“THE ME-TA-VERSE,” she states with an exaggerated eye roll, the one reserved almost exclusively for old people who just don’t know how to get down with the cool kids. “They’re already building whole worlds out there. People are buying up all the land, building houses and opening stores.”
“IC, it doesn’t work that way. No real person is going to live in the metaverse. We will just go there to play. And to earn money. And hang out. Read, listen to music. Buy clothes and shoes. Go to concerts. Ride the train. Take classes. That kind of thing.”
She shrugs. ‘Sounds like living to me.”
Maybe she’s right, at least partially. But just between you and me, this Mother Hen has no intention of swanning around the real world wearing The Emperor’s Digital Clothes anytime soon.
“So,” says my Inner Comedienne, swiveling herself onto the edge of the table and reaching for a pair of glittery rollerskates, “I’m considering becoming an NFT.”
An NFT. Seriously. I think it’s time to return to bed.