I like to pretend.
Every trip to the post office, every trip across country—it doesn’t matter where I go—I like to pretend I am on a mission.
My wife Karen doesn’t like to join my team, or army, or panzer group—even when I offer her a lieutenancy. Of course I am always the captain, but that is incidental.
Karen just frowns at me.
“Look to the South, Good Buddy,” I warn. “The Nazis are coming fast . . .”
“Keep your eyes on the road Jim,” she scolds.
“10-4,” I respond as I pull the Tiger Tank (aka Toyota Prius) back to the center of the road.
How about you?
Why not make a mundane trip to the grocery store into a mission behind enemy lines? Why not make a trip to church into a scouting mission across the Sahara?
Life is interesting enough, I suppose, without all the pretending but it is never as much fun.
My 7 year old grandson Zion will pretend with me.
Last Christmas high command gave us a mission to take important orders to Second Army (i.e., Karen told me to take a letter to our mail box at the end of our 150 yard driveway.) Brave Master Sergeant Zion (AKA my grandson) volunteered to join me.
“General Granna (i.e., Karen),” I warned. “Do not be surprised if we don’t make it back alive. My will is in the safe deposit box”
“Don’t miss the postman, Jim,” Karen responded.
“Yes mame,” I deferentially responded. “10-4.”