The secret life of Mitty

            As I was sitting at the railroad crossing, waiting for a slow-crawling train to pass, I found myself slipping into a Walter Mitty mode of thinking.

            For those not familiar with James Thurber's fictitious character, Walter Mitty was a brow-beaten man who daydreamed of daredevil careers – surgeon, pilot and submarine captain.

            Mitty came to mind as I listened to the escapades of Israeli super-spy Gabriel Allon, a character in a series of books on tape by Daniel Silva. Listening to Gabriel's adventures, I found myself wondering what I'd do if I was a secret agent.

            At this point, dear reader, you're probably rolling your eyes, wondering how a middle-aged woman could ever picture herself as an international spy.

            It's easy. In your imagination, you can be anything you want to be.

            In the quiet of my car, I'm not worrying about that slowly melting gallon of ice cream in the trunk. Nor am I worried about sideways glances from the truck driver next to me as I pluck my eyebrows.

            I'm on a secret mission to Paris, the fate of the free world riding on my shoulders. I'm witty and urbane and thin, and as long as I'm going down this imaginary path, beautiful.

            Hey, this is my daydream – get your own if you can't suspend reality for the next few minutes.

            I picture myself carrying super-secret documents in a pocket sewn into the jacket of my designer jacket. No heart-pounding nervousness for me. I am as calm as the sea on a windless day as I wrap my hand around a wad of cash in my pocket, payola for the French border patrol.

            Reality hit me about this point as I looked down and realized the grocery list, not a spy document, was in the pocket of my 10-year-old shorts. There wasn't a designer jacket in sight because it's 101 outside and I'm sweating like a boxer in the 10th round.

            And that wad of cash? Wadded-up Kleenex tissues as my allergies are horrible in the summer.

            Sneezing, I return to my daydream where I'm stopping the bad guys, giving deadly karate chops and vicious body slams as I make my way through a gauntlet of thugs. I bribe the French guards, slip down an alleyway and give Gabriel my secret documents.  

            Later, Gabriel and I will toast our victory over a late-night dinner of Chateau Briand and bubbling champagne. We'll talk of past adventures and plan our next move through international espionage.

            I'm brought back to reality when the train finally moves through the intersection. I realize there'll be no champagne that night – left-over Hamburger Helper and falling asleep on the couch in my faded pajamas will have to suffice.

            Coming through downtown, I find myself engaging in yet another adventure with one of my all-time favorite detectives, Aloysius Pendergast from the Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child novels.

            I'm driving as efficiently and quietly as Special Agent Pendergast. Sure, he's seamlessly moving in and out of traffic in his 1959 Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith while I'm trying to get around a lumbering red-and-white garbage truck.

            While waiting for an opening, an ivory, brand-new Escalade passes me, the driver wearing expensive sunglasses and flawless make-up while talking on her iPhone 5.

            I thought how unfair until I realized that, like Walter Mitty, I could be anything I wanted in the confines of my car.

            Spy. Femme Fatale. Surgeon.

            The sky's the limit. All it takes is a little bit of imagination.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.