My life is now akin to Walter Mitty’s.
You know Walter, don’t you? He’s a classic in American literature. Walter, As in The Secret Life of, is a creation of the genius James Thurber. Mr Mitty spends his day deep in daydreams. One moment he’s a Navy Pilot, the next he’s a brillant surgeon, an assassin, an RAF Pilot, and a man facing a Firing Squad, which, if you ask me, is really on par with presenting a paper at the upcoming IASPR conference.
Being a faker is like daydreaming too, and it’s got me wondering about something. How old is the average person when they stop daydreaming? When was the last time YOU stood in front of a mirror and pretended to be Madonna/Beyonce/Iggy Pop? Me? I haven’t stopped. I still pretend I’m beside Glenn Tilbrook, singing, and since that’s one Walter Mitty daydream that came to fruition, who says my other fantasies won’t too?
And get your mind out of the gutter. The kind of fantasy I mean is not about sex.
Shrinky says fantasies are healthy. It’s OK to think about ways to murdering your co-worker–the one who has 9 heads, fetid BO, and chews with her mouth open so food falls out–but it’s not healthy to actually do her in. So, if acting like you know what you’re doing is the key to success, then so is Walter Mitty-style daydreaming because you have to picture yourself pretending to know it all (which, as many of you out there who have played Oldbitey in Trivial Pursuit know I do know it all). I’m picturing myself all right. I’m daydreaming my ass off. Look at me. There’s is nothing I can’t do! See this big fat smile? I’m about to step out onto the tightrope. I’m perfectly balanced with my notes and head full of knowledge. I can do this act without a net.
Or is that a blindfold?