Walter Mitty and I would have been great mates.

Perhaps I am showing how much of a loser I am, but I watched the movie and read the book (by James Thurber) many years ago. Walter Mitty is basically a nice guy who pops into his imagination to escape his everyday life. He imagines himself as a fighter pilot, a millionaire, a brilliant surgeon, etc. And through it all, he is the hero of it all. The guy everyone wants to be. The one who makes a difference.

I am not sure if everyone has these fantasies, or if they are reserved for those of us who typify the definition of "sad individuals". But since this is my blog space and no one knows who I am anyway, I will confess-I, too, am a Mitty-ite. I too have fantasies about which I am The One to be Envied. A few examples:

- I have managed to sell my novel and it has become a bestseller. I appear on the Oprah Winfrey show (since she has rescinded her previous decree to no longer have bestsellers in her book club, an exception she makes for me alone since my book changed her life). I will be looking serious and yet energetic beneath the studio lights. Women in the audience tearfully tell me that my book made their life worth living. Oprah turns to me and says, fervently, that the metaphors I use as seasons being representative for the growth of an individual made her plant a garden. This is about where the fantasy breaks down-my response is usually something like. "Er...I didn't use metaphors. Um...what?"

- I am on an airplane that has been damaged by a lightening bolt. The captian and co-pilot has mysetieriously fallen ill (I don't dwell on that part, since it makes the fantasy break down), and I take control of the aircraft. I mean, since my father is an airline pilot (in real life, this is not a Mitty thing) I have obviously learned how to pilot a 747 by osmosis. I take the controls, and the tower talks me down, all the while the passengers are braced in crash position while I have pumped Peter Gabriel's "Don't Give Up" through the plane (God, am I macabre or what?). We land with some bumps and trouble, and I am the last one off the plane, greeted by a press conference in which I, dressed fashionably in all black and my hair perfectly straight and shining, tearfully say that none of this could have happened without "Those dedicated men in the flight tower". Said dedicated men rush forward and we all hug amidst tears and flash photographs. (Yes, I know, this one is a bit cornball, but it's entertaining anyway).

- The last one I often use is that I am in a conference room at work, when guerilla-terrorists break in and say we are all taken hostage. Now, why a terrorist would find it at all interesting to abduct a group of people responsible for telecommunications infrastructure is beyond me, but again let's not get bogged down by the details. I manage to disarm one of the terrorists since I notice his AK-47 is on safety (again, since I am from Texas, I will have learned gun knowledge by osmosis) and I kung fu the other guys' asses. My male colleagues are so happy and shaken by my daring (for I am the only woman there, and in general, that's not too far off the truth-I would guess the male:female ratio is about 7:1 in the company). I coolly brush my hair out of my face and tell them I am MI6, walking off into the sunset and breaking a few hearts in the process.

OK, now you surely think I am a loser. The truth is, I only use this material if I am in a meeting that is whipping me with boredom, dealing with in-laws, or trying to drift off to sleep sans-sleeping pill. I think, if we were all honest, we all are Mitty-ites. Maybe I'm just among the first to admit it.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 10:59 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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