I don’t usually share my dreams here. Primarily because I typically don’t remember them.

I had one this week, though, that seemed so real I decided it might be interesting.

I was a contestant on the Bachelor. Yeah, the reality TV show where a man is pursued by 20-something (both chronologically and the number vying for his attention).

This was not a binge-watching dream, mind you. When I tuned in, I was somehow in the final two. That is usually the time of the season when the bulk of the mean girls have been eliminated as the dude has been approached by enough other ladies carping that they were not there “for the right reasons.”

So how did I wind up here, I thought. I clearly did not belong. I mean, I am married to Ron. And very happily, I might add. I’m older than all these other gals, and who is this guy handing out roses, anyway? 

I can’t recall participating in any of the alcohol-infused parties where at least one candid cat fight breaks out and at least two girls wind up in the corner crying.

How do I get out of this dream, I wondered.

My worlds were rapidly colliding as I pondered what to do.

Oh, sure, the dude was pretty cute. And it was flattering to be recognized as the nice girl pitted against the one who didn’t come there to make friends. 

I began to hyperventilate, feeling very much in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was like Alice’s looking glass and everything I knew to be true was no more. Call it a morphing of “Freaky Friday,” “The Family Man” and “13 Going on 30,” as I was coherent enough to know the truth, but had somehow been thrust into a time warp of epidemic proportions.

Sorry, dude, I wanted to say, but I know what I know.

In my parallel universe, I have found Ron — who does all the heavy lifting in this relationship from having a servant’s heart and cooking for my parents to making sure I have gas in my car after the trip. And what about all he did when I was going through cancer? Shouldn’t that count for something?

Speaking of which, what is the bachelor going to do when he finds out about my scars? My flaws? The best of me isn’t always showing — sometimes there’s the worst of me ekking out.

Oh, why can’t I wake up?!

In my subconscious I was transported into a lovely parallel universe where I could possibly be whisked away by a complete stranger within a few scripted episodes that neatly wrap up in 42 minutes (if you stream rather than watch it live).

But on the other hand, I have 17 years with a man who still asks me out on a date every Friday night and does not blink or flinch when he sees me first thing in the morning with puffy eyes and no makeup. That’s got to count for something.

And it does.

I would not trade my ordinary everyday life of making memories and history with someone for the off chance random stranger guy on TV decides to pick me long enough to get a cover of “Us Weekly.”

That’s when I woke up. And, I might add, I was never so glad to see an episode end.

But it proves one thing — sometimes in order for your dreams to come true, you have to wake up.