Witness Protection

Have you ever thought about what it would be like to be in the Witness Protection Program? Maybe while you were watching "In Plain Sight"? (You've gotta love Marshal Marshall.)

I have. It would be miserable.

Imagine leaving everything you have and everyone you know on a moment's notice. You can't say goodbye. You can't ever check in, say hello, happy birthday or Merry Christmas. You cannot do anything, or go anywhere, that is familiar.

First, obviously, I have adult children; they couldn't go with me. I have a granddaughter; I'm already planning her first trip to Disneyland. I hope to have more grandchildren one day. To never see my loved ones again is unimaginable.

I have extended family, friends, the congregation at my church.

Let's start there, just because it's a handy starting point. If anyone is looking for me, they'll know that my religion is important to me. Staking out church meetings will inevitably lead to finding me. Therefore, I'm sure, Witness Protection rules would forbid my attendance. Imagine being told that you cannot practice your religion - or, for non-religious folks, imagine being told that you have to choose a religion and believably practice it. The whole point, after all, is to not be yourself.

I couldn't work as a photographer any more, since that's identifiable. What's worse is that I couldn't carry a camera, couldn't take photos even for myself. Ever since I received my first camera at age eight, it's been another appendage. Look at photos of me - I have a camera over my shoulder most of the time. On vacation, I don't carry a purse, but I will rarely be without a camera. That would be an extremely difficult adjustment.

I couldn't work as a teacher, either. I've never taught as a profession, but I've taught classes at church, at co-op, as a homeschool parent enough that it would be obvious to anyone looking for me that they should check out teaching positions.

I couldn't work in a library or bookstore, because that's just as obvious. I probably couldn't even buy noticeable quantities of books from Amazon or thrift stores. That would be harder than parting with my camera. I can't imagine how I would function without books - which is exactly why someone looking for me would look in libraries and bookstores.

I couldn't act, professionally or otherwise. I couldn't work backstage - I couldn't even usher. It would probably be forbidden to even attend live theater - or the symphony, the ballet or even a preschool pageant.

Any cursory look through my bookshelves, DVR or conversation reveals an interest in law enforcement, so that's another career possibility down the tubes. I've spent most of my adult life as a Scout leader, so working with the Scouts, or with kids or youth groups, is out.

I once had a dream - a nightmare, really - that my husband and I had opened a deep sea salvage business. If you know me, you know that I would have a fatal heart attack before the first day of such a job was finished. (What did I eat before I went to bed?)

I studied journalism in school, and I write to make sense of my own thoughts, so obviously I couldn't work as any kind of writer. I've worked in offices before, so office work is out. I'm picturing some hapless WITSEC employee tasked with teaching me how to be an auto mechanic, because no one would expect that.

I've spent my entire life in the Great Basin of the American west, so both mountains and deserts are equally familiar to me. That means, of course, that I'd be sent somewhere with neither. I am temperamentally best suited to small towns, but that wouldn't matter. It's hard to be anonymous in a small town. If you're hiding, a big city is your best bet. Did you ever see the "Mad About You" episode where Helen Hunt's character says that she wants to buy "square footage thousands of feet in the air, like a normal person"? That has never been a part of my reality.

It wouldn't help that large cities typically have amazing museums; I undoubtedly couldn't attend, buy a membership, work in the gift shop or walk past, because everyone knows that I love museums.  I couldn't volunteer as a docent at historic sites, or dress as an early settler in a Pilgrim or pioneer village. I watch "Mysteries at the Museum" on TV. I've been to not one, but two Bigfoot museums, in two different states. Looking for me at a museum would be too obvious.

So, there I'd be, in a high rise somewhere in a sprawling metropolis, unable to go to museums, attend the theater, take any photos, attend church or do any work for which I have an interest or aptitude. I couldn't really travel in order to distract myself from it all, either, because that would be another red flag. One of the few things I'm willing to spend considerable time and money on is travel, so if I was hiding, I'd have to stay put.

Good heavens. I'm getting depressed just thinking about it.

At least I don't spend any time worrying about the zombie apocalypse. This, of course, is because zombies do not exist.

Still, my chances of witnessing something like a mob hit are slim to none, right? Right? Comfort me here!

If I ever inexplicably disappear, and an unsigned post card arrives at your door, it might be me, calling for help. I'll squeeze it in when I'm on my break from my new job as a fashion editor at Vogue.