I had one of the weirdest dreams ever last week. Maybe it was the broccoli I piled atop the three-day-old leftover pizza.

It wasn’t a scary dream, but it made no sense.

I dreamed I was in the Safeway, buying groceries, when I saw a new bike, shiny white frame with trail-size tires and upright handlebars, hanging from the wall. Best part, it was only $60.

Now, I already own three bikes, but something about this heavy-frame white bike attracted me. So I bought it. There were two on the wall, and I figured if I didn’t buy it now and came back later, it would be gone. I think a lot in my dreams.

Like I said, it’s a dream, so it doesn’t have to make sense. I did not question what kind of a brand new bike would be just $60, or why was it on display at the grocery store.

I paid for my groceries and the bike and went home. But then realized I had forgotten to get the bike off the wall. I had paid for it but left the store emptyhanded. Guess my memory is just as bad in my dreams as it is in daylight.

I thought about going back and asking for my bike, but for some reason I had failed to get a receipt. Thinking it through in my sleep, I figured no one at the store would ever believe my story and give me the bike. I was out $60.

Later, when I woke up, it was all still in my head. It was so real that I actually laid in bed, wondering why Safeway was selling bikes, why they were hanging on the wall by the checkout lane, why they were only $60, and what could I do to get my bike or my money back.

Eventually, I realized nothing happened, that I had started to believe my own dream. Or maybe it was real.

With my head still foggy and fuzzy, I remembered a song from the 1980s by Steve Goodman, a late Chicago folk singer:

“Fell asleep last night with the TV on. Oh, what a dream I had,” Goodman sang. “I dreamed I answered every single one of those late-night mail order ads. And four to six weeks later, much to my surprise,” he bemoaned, UPS and postal service drivers delivered stacks of boxes filled with everything he had ordered: a Veg-O-Matic slicer, Pocket Fisherman, Ginsu knife, bamboo steamer, egg scrambler, seal-a-meal carrying case and a Garden Weasel too.

That got me worrying, maybe I did buy a bike and left it at the store? If it can happen to a folk singer, why not me?

Eventually, I convinced myself that I hadn’t bought anything, no matter how real the dream felt.

But then I wondered: What if Donald Trump were just a bad dream, same as my forgotten bike purchase, the same as the folk singer’s lament about ordering a room full of kitchen appliances from 800 numbers.

I turned on the radio, listened to the news and promptly went upstairs to eat something. Trump was president, the unaffordable and mean-spirited “Big Beautiful Bill” was headed to passage and millions of Americans were headed to losing health care coverage.

Can’t fault me for dreaming.