I’ve always had an active imagination. There are scores of embarrassing stories and pictures to document this fact. I was raised in a family that values kids playing outdoors and in dress-ups, so in my life I’ve swam with the mermaids, joined Belle in a small French village, hosted my own decorating show, delighted the masses with my tasty culinary creations, written novels out of the tiny broom-closet turned office, been several nationalities outside my own, and served as queen over an entire empire known as Secret City, among other things. It follows me in my sleep as I have flown above the fields, traveled to countries I’ve never seen, and saved the world many times over.
But this imagination also has a darker side. I’ve dreamt up murder mysteries, been chased far too many times by a variety of villains, and been party to the worst-case scenario. This, too, has followed me into my everyday life.
For example, this morning. The microwave in our office, seeming so cheery in its red shell, was counting down toward zero. I pressed every button on the screen to turn the timer off, but to no avail. As I waited for my tea to brew, I became more and more anxious as I waited for the microwave-turned-bomb to ignite and destroy our entire office. Heroine that I am, I lunged to unplug the evil machine as was mildly electrocuted in the process. When I go to file for worker’s comp, I will bravely explain, “I was afraid the microwave was actually a bomb, you see. You’re welcome.”
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