Rank amateur

It’s like sleeping with your eyes open; the ability to daydream without that thousand-mile stare, or drool running down your cheek.
Walter Mitty is a rank amateur, compared to the adventures I create in my head.
Mitty, of course, was the main character in James Thurber’s “The Secret Life of Walter Mitt” (at just 2,100 words, the story is refreshing in its economy). Mitty is a hen-pecked milk toast of a man who escapes into daring do.
I, however, am not timid. I just have a vivid imagination. And it’s on most of the time.
Most recurring in my repertoire is the “quit my job and have them all suffer at my leaving/win the lottery/write a best-seller/win the Pulitzer Prize” scenario. The “alien abduction/fix all my sports injuries/buff me out/quit my job and have them all suffer at my leaving/win several triathlons and mountain bike races (and don’t give interviews to the paper)/win the lottery/write a best-seller/open up a cool brew pub with the profits” also is right up there.
And while I do believe that someday I will win the lottery (my daughter is a bit psychic, and she says I’m going to hit it), all the other stuff is just a dream. It may happen, but if (or when) the dreams become reality, it’s going to be through hard work.
I don’t think a lot of people today understand that. We’ve become an entitlement society. Many of us think that we’re owed something, just by showing up.
A wise man once told me, “Never get your car repaired at a place called Bob’s Radiator Repair, never spit into the wind, once in your life, own a convertible and always remember _ you make your own way in this life.”
It is easy to lose sight of that. Hard work is hard.
But I am not entitled to anything I do not create for myself.