ANALYZE THIS! (My Crazy Dream)

      My friend Judy and I were discussing how we both hate having to think of something to cook day after day after day.  For some reason, during our conversation, Judy, who is a wonderful cook of some reknown, convinced me that the bottom part of my left leg would make a tasty meal.  I wasn’t sure I wanted to do it, but she assured me it was possible.  I assented and she pulled out an electric carving knife.  Buzzing it into action, she began sawing at my leg.  I noted that the cutting didn’t hurt much more than my leg, especially at the knee, already did six months after surgery.  My husband wandered into the room and stood by quietly watching.
     I kept wondering when Judy would finally get to the bone and if it would hurt more when she did.  Something else required her attention and left us alone for the moment.  I focused on my knee and saw blood pooling in my lap.  I filled with misgiving.  I thought about how I’d never be able to dance again.  The top part of my leg above the cut began to swell. 
     “Do you suppose I could stop this whole process and save my leg?” I asked my husband.
     “I think so,” he said.
     “Why didn’t you advise me against cutting off my leg and eating it?” I asked him.
     “I felt it was your decision to make,” he said.  “I didn’t want to get involved.
     We waited for Judy to return so we could get to the ER.  I elevated my partially sawed leg.  She never returned, so my husband and I went to the ER where a birthday party was going on and the doctors were fully involved in celebration.  I voiced my concern over losing too much blood or risking infection, but the doctor said he needed to finish his partying. 
     “You can wait for me in there,” he said, motioning to another room. 
     When I entered and found a chair, I saw it was situated in the midst of a game show all about dancing.  If a contestant answered the question correctly, then he or she got to dance. 
     The host came to me and I demurred, saying my leg wouldn’t allow me to dance.
     My husband said, “Oh, go for it.  You’ll be fine.”
     “Will my leg be OK?” I asked the host.
     “No problem,” he said.
     I don’t remember the question which had something to do with music, but I do remember the correct answer, which I gave, was “contemplative.”
     Bells gonged and as the winner, I got up, dragging my leg behind me.  I looked down and the swelling had disappeared.  All that remained was a thin line of the bloody cut encircling my leg.  I began dancing.