James Thurber wrote a short story, “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty,” about a mild natured man who daydreams about being a hero. After the release of two movies based on this story, being a Walter Mitty has become a derogatory term for a sap with delusions of grandeur…I mean a person with a rich interior life. As far as I’m concerned, Walter Mitty’s a lightweight. I can out daydream him any day of the week, always could, apparently always will. When I’m listening to music, I’m either the soloist or Ginger Rodgers in toe shoes. After watching a movie or TV show, I recreate the plot to add a new character…me…and then I fix everything by telling them how wrong they are. Lately, in my head I’m Gujarati. Before that, I was Scottish. Long ago, I was Hawaiian. Whenever I become obsessed with a new culture, I daydream about fitting in. When Hawaii was my crush, I was Hilo Hattie. I was the Lovely Hula Hands. I had dark skin, and long flowing tresses. I could perform all the traditional dances with the best of them. That was in my head. What stared back in the mirror was someone who couldn’t go out in the sun and was afraid of the ocean. Nonetheless, I learned to love poi, and whenever I hear Hawaiian music, in my head, I’m still Lovely Hula Hands Hattie. During the Scotland years, I mimicked the accent well enough to get into the local Highland games at the family rate. I bought a chanter with the intention of learning to play the bagpipes, but couldn’t force out a note. Yet when others hear the annoying yowl of a bagpipe, my heart perks up and I think I’m about to start marching or attacking an enemy. One evening I attended a Scottish Country dance class. You have to hop. Every time I hopped, I peed my pants a little. I never went back. However, I can sing “I belong to Glasgow,” I own made-in-Scotland teaspoons, and when I finally got to Scotland I told the kids to sell my house and send the money. In my head, I’m a tireless sword dancer who speaks Gaelic. Now that I want to be an Indian, Asiatic, more specifically Gujarati, I’m trying to convince my throat that chilies are good things. I can’t go to India unless I can eat the food and thus far I’m one spoonful away from having to bolt for the exit where I can gag in peace. Yet in my head, my throat is made of stainless steel, I can shoot three arrows rapid fire from Asiatic bows while riding Kathiawari horses with Genghis Khan saddles. I can also leap to Garba music like Baryshnikov and dance as well as Madhuri Dixit and Aishwarya Rai. You can Google them. They’re really good. I should be so lucky. When my ex-husband and I made a pact that I would learn to to handle a pistol if he would learn to ballroom dance, I started daydreaming about taking out all the bad guys, using their own weapons. It made me very happy to think about all the ways I could be Clint Eastwood and kill people. One day I shared these reveries with my weapons supplier, I mean my ex-husband. He seriously considered what I’d said and replied, “Maybe you’re not the right personality to handle a gun.” That was the end of our target shooting dates. But in my mind, I’m still Dick Dead-eye. Oh, and I can sing, speak, read, and write the language of whatever country my head is in on any particular day. So far the list includes Hindi, Sanskrit, Urdu, Hebrew, Yiddish, French, Italian, and Spanish, with a smattering of German, Punjabi, and Mandarin. Also, to be perfectly honest here, in my head I’m still sixteen. Actually, in most women’s heads they’re still sixteen, unless they really are sixteen, in which case they think they’re twenty-one. Robert Heinlein said so. You can trust him. He knew what he was talking about. If you doubt Mr. Heinlein, ask the first old lady you can talk to without getting whacked on the head with her purse. Inside most women’s hearts resides the soul of a sixteen-year-old girl. It’s such a shock to get an accidental glimpse of reality in the mirror. Whoever is peering back is not Gujarati and is definitely not sixteen. When did that happen? Recently I was shown a photo taken at a restaurant where I was doing my best to sit up straight and still smile. What I saw in the snapshot was a senior woman with Iguana dewlaps for forearms. My second reaction was “I am what I am.” That’s a huge gain in self acceptance from my first reaction, which was “Why is that old lady wearing my dress?” Every time I refer to myself as an old lady, my audience exclaims “You’re not that old!” I don’t know what that means. I don’t know what “That old” means. Do they mean 102? Because if that’s the benchmark, then thank you. Perhaps they are trying to make me feel better. Yes, that’s probably the case. Americans have been accused of having an issue with aging. We even have a name for it. Agism. Old people creep the bejeezus out of many younger Americans, whereas Gujaratis, Scots, and Hawaiians are nice to their old folks. At least they claim to be. Of course, I can’t understand what they’re saying so they could be muttering, “Give that crazy old lady what she wants because I’m in a hurry and need to get out of here.” Yet whatever is said is accompanied by smiles and offers of a seat and food and something to drink, so I’m good with it. Agism was winning until recently when the Baby Boomer generation showed up, the people who invented self-serving self-preoccupation. I’m at the leading edge of that crowd, but I reap their benefits. Now, when it’s time to move me into a nice place, I can be assured of living in a Ritz Hotel with a social room for lectures, chamber music, and book signings. Thank you, Boomers. To be perfectly honest, lately I started to become a tad concerned about my incurably over-active daydreams. You see, all the women in my mother’s family developed dementia around age 80. I’m already incapable of driving anywhere without an implausible romance, a professional Tango performance, belly dancing with a sword balanced on my head, or an action thriller playing out before my eyes where the road should be. What if I get locked into that world and can’t come out to play? Then truth popped in where fantasy resides. I’m writing now. I started with a war story taking place in India in the 1500s. How could I possibly have scripted realistic fight scenes when I’m afraid to get on a horse? No problem. I saw them play out in my head. My next book might be a romance. You never know. If it is, I’ve got the good parts ready. The older I get, the more my daydreams are morphing into reality portals. I used to dress in elegant invisibility. Now I’m designing colorful clothing for aged hippies who like eggplant curry. I see no reason why I won’t someday be on Ellen, hawking my latest book. Who’s to say no, other than Ellen and her producers? I’m telling you, in the long run it pays to be a Walter Mitty. Never let them convince you otherwise. All those daydreams can be put put to good use. Take me for example. At last, finally, the world is my oyster! No. Wait. I don’t eat shellfish.