Why My Flights of Fancy Can’t Get Off the Runway
Sometimes I imagine, when my toe begins to itch in the middle of the night, that I am an international spy who is being tortured for information, and I must resist, at all costs, the urge to give it all up. I last about 5 seconds.
When my daughter sings the same five words from a song over and over again, I again imagine that I am a spy being tortured – but in this case I have no information to give up.
Sometimes I imagine that I am a gifted singer singing a duet with Adam Levine on my car radio, and that a recording executive happens to be in the car next to me and will do anything to get my name, including executing foolish maneuvers on the road to get my attention. I am the only one driving insanely.
Conversely, I also like to imagine that I am a horrible singer and that my voice has completely paralyzed the stalker who is crouched in the back of my car.
When I buy a toy for a future birthday/holiday, etc… and hide it in my closet, I imagine a family member discovering it after I’ve died from a tragic accident (perhaps when the recording executive cut me off in his zeal to sign me to a record contract) and crying hysterically over my thoughtfulness.
When I fling a piece of laundry into the closet, missing the hamper, I imagine a family member discovering bits of lingerie and various stages of embarrassing fat pants in the nooks and crannies of my closet after I’ve died from a ridiculous freak accident (like jumping in front of a recording executive’s car so he would sign me to a record contract) and posting the evidence of my slovenliness on FaceBook.
I don’t use FaceBook. One reason is that whenever I imagine myself as a famous dead author, I worry that people will hunt down my Facebook posts and invent elaborate explanations of my writing from the seemingly boring pictures of my mundane existence.
Whenever I reflect on my prosaic life story, I imagine that I would make a great spy because seemingly boring people are perfect undercover operatives.
Then I try to go to sleep and my toe begins to itch.
Note to self: Do NOT EVER AGAIN Look Up “Big Toe” on Google Images. Gross!!!!!!
photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/7876912@N07/6439755299/”>bubjay</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a> <a href=”http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/2.0/”>cc</a>