Lately I’ve been dreaming about being a spy. It’s a nice change from the usual “somebody is chasing me” nightmare. These days the tables are turned and rather than running through molasses from some unknown terror, I’m the one holding the machine gun. Go me! I’d like to think that the dream analysis is true and this represents my drive and ambition. Sadly, I think it has a lot more to do with my recent Alias obsession. Apparently my subconscious wants to be Sydney Bristow.
There are worse people to want to be, let’s be honest. She’s hot, smart, funny, in touch with her emotional side, she speaks eight languages and most importantly, she TOTALLY kicks ass! Yeah, everybody around her dies, but hey, that’s the price you pay for being an international woman of mystery. She’s managed to have a meaningful relationship, connect with her super-spy parents, maintain long-term friendships – even if they do involve witness protection – and have a baby. She travels all over the world and her paycheck is seriously phat. Have you seen her apartment? Sweet! So she risks her life a lot; there are down sides to every job. But her wardrobe is insane and her wig collection is to die for. I’ve long had a blue hair fantasy. Sydney can be blue today and blond tomorrow. That’s got to count for something.
I’ve never been too sure about the whole “health of television on the developing mind” thing. As a child I was allowed one hour of television a day, sometimes more if it was educational. I spent a great deal of my time counting with Bert and Ernie and humming the tune to National Geographic. I still get tingles when Nova comes on but, like sugared cereal, I started watching the TV equivalent as soon as I left home and finally started getting all those popular references that evaded me during my formative years. No, I was not popular.
At this point I think I can safely say that television affects a persons thinking or, at the very least, mine. Not only have I become a nightly vigilante but after weeks of watching Lost, flying has once again become a problem. Of course not helped by the four or five Airbuses that have recently either crashed or made emergency landings, but it was a fear I had under control for a while. No longer. Living through 9/11 provided me with this particular phobia. Having largely gotten past it, (I recommend flying to Asia as a cure. 24 hours on a plane and you don’t care how you get off.), I never would have guessed that a popular television show could bring it back. But the show plays the crash sequence over and over and over. During the days after the attacks the news agencies, in an unprecedented concern for public well-being, finally pulled the footage of the planes crashing into the towers after realizing it was contributing to the country’s post-traumatic stress. Lost has essentially brought it all back to the surface and while I love the back-stories and all the characters, John Locke? – I ask you! – I’ve had to take a break. There was recently a weekend trip to London during which I cried through take off both going and coming. It seems The Dharma Initiative has wrecked its evil influence off screen as well as on and I’d like to take this moment to apologize to the people seated next to me on those flights. I owe you both a drink, although it might have been better if we’d been able to have it then!
In maybe not such a smart move, I have started making my way through Dexter. I don’t wish to frighten friends or family but as most of you aren’t anywhere near by and my fear of flying is still in effect, I think you’re safe for the time being. It’s not my fault! If they would be quicker about releasing the DVD’s over here I could be watching Heros instead. I would be dreaming about flying or reading minds rather than cutting them open. I’ll try to get through this series quickly, promise. The nightly butchery isn’t as fun as it sounds.
Going forward I guess I have to take into consideration that maybe my parents were right. One hour a day should really be enough and if you’re learning something from it, other than awesome kickboxing moves that is, then it doesn’t need to have the negative impact it seems to have for me. Or maybe instead I just need to be more careful about my choices. After all, would anybody mind if I became Martha Stewart? Receiving perfectly wrapped gifts hermetically sealed with just the right amount of tape and given under my color coordinated Christmas tree would be something my family might enjoy. Nah. I like being a spy. Hey J.J., if your next series requires a young looking, thirty-something, not-so-in-shape former opera singer turned everyday savior well, you know who to call. Cause thanks to Syd, I’ve got the moves, baby!