When I was a kid, a friend and I spent our days not playing dolls or planning our weddings, but planning our next escape from ‘them’. We thought we were girl spies. Not in the innocent pretend way though; we legitimately thought we were spies. Solving crimes, chasing bad guys, they would chase us, we would have a popsicle, and move on with whatever caught our attention. Our over-active imaginations probably scared our parents into wondering what the heck to do with us, and for that I kind of feel bad.
My friend and I had spy names (you know, kind of like ‘Mr and Mrs Smith): She was Anita Kark and I was Daisy Jane, together we fought the forces of evil. I’m not sure we had anyone in mind that we were spying on – but we never had any complaints. Most importantly, being a spy meant that we could come up with a rather cool routine which involved us running away from the bad guys once they realized we had ruined their evil plans – we used Anita’s swing set and yelled ‘they’re coming’ while running through the grass and launching ourselves onto the monkey bars, spinning around, and calling it a day. Why can’t all days be like this?
20 years later – I still use my spy name, but not for the same reasons. If you see me out on the town and you ask me my name, I might tell you it’s Jane. Know this: my name isn’t actually Jane – I’ll just tell you that because I’m not fascinated with the idea of actually telling you my name.
Clever, I know.