“Hey, Jeff,” I whispered. “Can you imagine coming back here one day having your own products as a very successful company owner?”

“Come here, let me take a picture of you.”

We were at the EV Show at Melbourne Convention Centre and the only reason I was there was to show my support to my husband. He’s in the Electric Vehicle industry, so to speak. Except that it’s rollerblades and he has yet to debut it into the bigger world as soon as the universe grants him a million dollars to fund such a massive undertaking.

It’s either go big or go home.

For three years, I’ve witnessed this guy’s highs and lows in building his skates with blood, sweat and tears. My eyes may glaze as soon as he starts talking amplitudes and voltages but that doesn’t mean I don’t support him 100% because I do. I have so much faith in him and I honestly wish him all the best.

I mean, if it is for his highest good to be a billionaire in order to help make a difference in people’s lives, who am I to hold him back from achieving it?

I mean, right?

Which is why I dressed the part of a billionaire’s wife in honour of such future occasion. Took my mother’s 30-year old vintage trousers out for a spin with its perfect fit and incredible tailoring. I was going for the monochromatic, wealthy philanthropist look.

Low-key.

Like my grand delusions.

I sent my mom a photo of me wearing her pants. I was that proud daughter seeking validation and her reaction did not disappoint. I felt her joy and her cheerful nostalgia as she literally called me to say I looked nice in it and how, once upon a time, she fit in them too as it was custom-made just for her.

(Insert my mom’s recent photo there. She has recently started sharing on Facebook — deliberately or accidentally. Some are photos of her. Others are blurry photos of her windows and floral curtains. Good on her. She had missed out a lot on her youth. It’s never too late for her to have fun and enjoy her life. She deserves it.)

Jeff had fun walking around the displays and talking numbers and technical stuff to people who actually understood his lingo and who were just as passionate about it as he was.

Meanwhile, I stupidly stood there in front of a teal car, asking, “What am I looking at?”

“That’s a Formula One race car!” Jeff exclaimed.

*Shrug*

What caught my interest, though, was this McLaren before I even knew it was a McLaren. I was attracted to its bright fiery colour. A great ball of glorious fire on wheels, hopefully not literally on the road.

“Oh, it’s only $590,299, Jeff!” I said. My delusional game was going pretty strong, mainly for manifestation; and partly because my sense of humour kicks up a notch when I’m bored and suddenly transform into a fucking stand-up comedian.

But truth be told, I don’t want a McLaren. In all seriousness — and Jeff knows I’m not kidding at all — I want a Porsche. I have set my mind on it. I am at a point in my life where I just want a car that would keep bloody tailgaters off my ass and would cause them the most damage if they don’t. Something that would annihilate their insurance.

“You’re gonna have to pay heaps on insurance yourself,” Jeff reasoned.

“I don’t care,” I replied. “You’re already a billionaire then. It’s your money.”

Even then, I’d probably still drive that thing like a grandma on the road.

A grandma in a Porsche.

*Raven at 7 years old