I want to be like James Bond. I say 'like James Bond' because I don't want to actually wrestle with henchmen on the burning wing of a death-spiraling aircraft 20,000 feet above the earth. Just your everyday 007 with dashes of Cary Grant thrown in to ensure extra handsomeness. And this is for my wife and kids, not to engage in hubris-driven acts of conquest.
Keep in mind I look nothing like Sean Connery, Roger Moore, Pierce Brosnan (Timothy Dalton was surely an aberration), or Daniel Craig. Ian Fleming's image of Bond was that nattily dressed, serious looking chap above, with his stern visage and tousled, dark hair. Again, totally not me, there has never been a bald Bond.
But can I have the Brioni suit and a '65 Aston Martin DB5 to arrive at my spectacularly dull government job that is so far removed from the exotic locales of the Bond films that I cringe thinking about it? Should I be working, in fact, this instant on tracking down leaseholders and making sure the Peterson file doesn't get cross-filed with the fencing file for the school playground job? Does James Bond have to sit at this brown-gray desk day after day shoving stacks of nonsense from countertop to recycle bin in an endless loop until death comes on some bitterly cold late winter Monday morning?
Oh, but forgive me, the insanity took hold for a minute and reality kicked me in the back of the head forty times to drown out the James Bond Theme playing in my imagination.
