Dear Jason Bourne

I just got home from hanging out with this man. His mother called him Ron. The mean boys at school called him Scrawny Ronny. I call him Dad.

We watched The Bourne Ultimatum together tonight, finishing our Bourne marathon that we've been running for the past couple of days. I like watching action movies with my dad. He secretly wishes he was a covert CIA operative instead of a power plant worker, but he takes solace in the fact that he probably packs better heat than most agents do.

I love the Bourne movies, due in part to my crush on Jason Bourne, but also because when I watch them I actually think that I can do what he's doing. I visualize myself running like a speeding bullet. I start believing that if someone broke into my house I could slide with my back against the wall and confidently point my Glock at the intruder. I think that I in fact know karate.

But then my eyes unpeal from the television and my ankle pops as I walk to the refrigerator. And my mind unfortunately remembers two occasions when I bawled my face off at the shooting range because the loud noises scared me. You probably assumed I was a child when this happened. Unfortunately this was a year ago.

So here's to you, Jason Bourne.

Thank you for figuring out that you are David Webb.

Thanks for not crying at the gun shots like I do.

And P.S. I'm real sorry about your girlfriend.