Undercover.

This weekend, I've been a bit decouragee.

That's French for discouraged, and it sounds way more devastating than the English, which is appropriate for this weekend, when I'm tres decouragee.

Because, it would appear, the F.B.I. might not want me after all.

And I didn't know I really wanted them until I looked into it. Sort of how you don't realize you really, really do love the guy that you've been ambivalent about until he shows up with another chick. And you're like, "Wait, but I love you."

That's me and the F.B.I. right now.

Because lately, particularly ever since finding out how hard it is to do and really considering how I would look in a dark suit driving around in a dark car every day bringing justice and order to every corner of this fine nation, I have this very bizarre obsession with becoming an integral part of law enforcement efforts on a grand scale.

And because I don't do things half ass (Yes, that's Peace Corps West Africa, friends, not Eastern Europe), it has to be the F.B.I.

Ever since about three days ago, when it occured to me how my lack of career satisfaction to date (note, all in non-law enforcement careers, mind you), combined with my mother's obsession with making me watch every Perry Mason movie ever made and her ability to always guess her Christmas present in advance not to mention my father's uncanny ability to suss out and tackle shoplifters, my years-long love affair with Fox Mulder and my current disposition to international espionage was all coalescing in a profound sign from the universe that what I was intended for was an illustrious career as an elite criminal investigator.

Which is interesting, since I'm terrified of guns, afraid of the use of physical force and generally have thought of myself as one who thwarts authority, not acts on its behalf.

Because otherwise evidently I could join the Army, as the F.B.I. would certainly appreciate a military background more than it would appear my B.A. in English literature, but then there is that whole authority thing, and I feel like I'd die of push up overdose within 10 minutes at bootcamp for constantly saying, "But are we ever really going to need to do situps in combat?" much like I used to always ask my math teachers where in the real world we were going to be where there weren't going to be calculators.

I don't think that kid makes it very far in the military, is my guess, kind of like it never got me very far in math class, so I have politely refrained from enlisting to date out of respect for all the other people in my unit who would end up doing all those extra pushups as a result of my antidisestablishmentarianism.

(You can thank me later, guys.)

Yes, I think that the Army would appreciate my penchant for questioning authority about as much as my first boss, and that was not a lot.

Which is probably not good to write down, on the Internet, in case there is still a slim chance the F.B.I. might want me.

Even though based on what I've learned on their Web site, they almost definitely don't.

Nevermind the lack of subtlty I show by putting my whole life on the Internet. (I PROMISE, F.B.I., IF YOU TAKE ME, I WILL KEEP SECRETS, I PROMISE.)

(My Yakubu has discovered that if you want to communicate with the F.B.I. or the CIA via their VERY EXCELLENT surveillance (SINCE, OF COURSE, I HAVE NOTHING TO HIDE), all you have to do is WRITE IN ALL CAPS so they know to tune in. (IT HELPS TO MAKE YOUR LIVES EASIER, GUYS, DOESN'T IT? DON'T YOU APPRECIATE THAT AND WANT TO HIRE ME?)

Anyway, despite all these tactics I've discovered to try to help the F.B.I. fight evil in my civilian life (UNPAID, BY THE WAY), it seems they value people with actual previous experience in crime fighting and law and accounting and other pools of actual, concrete knowledge and stuff. Also, evidently superpowers are of help.

And while they say they have a "diversified fields" path (a.k.a. liberal arts people like myself with no applicable skills) I am fairly certain they are only being polite (WHICH I APPRECIATE), or only mean that for people who speak things like Farsi, which I do not (BUT DON'T YOU GUYS THINK THERE IS SOME CRIME GOING ON OUT THERE IN FRENCH? I DO, HINT HINT).

Anyway, I don't speak Farsi, and my Arabic only extends to inappropriate curse words which would probably not result in my befriending anyone suspicious, so, again, it's like I'm being punished for growing up in the midwest and not knowing immediately about my penchant for law enforcement, both of which are completely outside of my control.

How many F.B.I. agent role models did I have, now, really? That's right, none. Because they're sneaking around fighting crime, not coming to class on career day. There's Officer Friendly, of course, but how many Special Agent Friendlies visited your first grade classroom?

That's right. None.

So now I'm left with some very meager qualifications indeed. Like sorting out The Lie on my own, kissing a Marine (my closest military experience to date, and a highly pleasant one, if I may so editorialize (BUT I'M NOT A HO, GUYS, I PROMISE, AND WOULD NOT EMBARRASS YOU.), watching every X-Files and Law and Order episode ever made and putting a documentary about becoming a Special Agent onto my Netflix queue.

Also, I have a charming personality and excellent critical thinking skills, not to mention a flair for writing fascinating, colorful reports on nearly any topic.

But, having read about how becoming a Special Agent is sort of like the hardest thing to do ever (I'm not sure, but it sounds to me like it might be harder than becoming a Navy Seal, even with all that holding your breath under water for five hours and stuff), and about how evidently people prepare their whole lives to become one (BUT I SWEAR GUYS, I'M A REAL FAST LEARNER), I'm a little concerned about my prospects, considering that I'm 30 and just got this idea yesterday.

That's the bitch about 30. You start realizing that more and more doors are closed than open, which was not the case at 22.

This is not a fun realization.

Particularly when one of the closed doors is the one to the F.B.I. and it's really not my fault that I just realized that being a Special Agent is my true calling.

Really, I think the F.B.I. should do more intense recruiting efforts at midwestern liberal arts colleges in order to find those gems like myself who might make fine Special Agents before we discover independent adult living and Ben and Jerry's and may not otherwise realize until later that federal investigating is their destiny. (Only after their running endurance has dropped from 26 miles to 2.6 minutes.)

But they don't, and so hence, I sit, decouragee. (THANKS, GUYS.)

If I weren't giving all my money to The Lawyer and The Therapist (NOT THAT THIS SHOULD AT ALL IMPLY I WOULDN'T PASS THE PSYCH EVAL), I would certainly take this up with The Career Counselor, who could perhaps explain whether this is just a phase brought on by a recent traumatic event (I REALLY DON'T THINK SO GUYS AND WOULD COMMIT TO AT LEAST 20 EXCELLENT YEARS OF SERVICE BEFORE I QUIT TO WRITE MY MEMOIRS, WHICH WOULD NOT REVEAL ANY SENSITIVE INFORMATION, I PROMISE) and a desire to feel empowered, or whether that traumatic event has propelled me into my destiny, Young Skywalker (OR, SPECIAL AGENT SKYWALKER. SEE GUYS, I GET THE LINGO).

In any case, it's all very decourageant, to have finally figured out your true calling, even though the thought had never occured to you in life before, and to realize that it may be too late, and that there is no amount of studying you could do or amount of time you could spend in the gym to make up for it.

That by choosing certain paths, you may have unchosen some others, which isn't really something they give you a memo on when you're first making choices at a liberal arts college and it doesn't occur to you that choices are a funnel as time goes on, not an ever-widening horizon. (ALSO, CRIME FIGHTING WASN'T A MAJOR AT MY COLLEGE, I DON'T THINK, GUYS. SEE, NOT MY FAULT.)

Not that you'd do-over the choices you made (BECAUSE, SERIOUSLY GUYS, BEING IN THE PEACE CORPS IS A VERY SIMILAR SKILL SET TO BEING IN THE F.B.I. FOR INSTANCE, IT'S REAL, REAL HARD.), just that you might kind of wish that you'd done them in a trench coat, with dark glasses, while practicing tae kwon doe and studying to be a private investigator.

Or something else, totally different, that would enable you to reinvent yourself, to go undercover, to forge a completely different path than the one you were on, which somehow now feels a little narrow, a little foggy, a little ill fitting, for today.

Maybe because of that thing that happened or because of 30 or because of the ever-increasing plethora of excellent film and television options devoted to elite law enforcement.

And all of it just has you thinking that maybe something different would be good, something new, something that would allow you to shake off the uniform you've been wearing for quite a long time.

Not to the degree that you want to dump it forever, but just that you might want to tie it around your waist for a while, so that you could try on something new.

Like a dark suit, and a dark car, and an undercover, reinvented life with the F.B.I.

(SERIOUSLY GUYS, HOW DO WE KNOW I CAN'T DO IT UNTIL YOU GIVE ME A SHOT? JUST REMEMBER, FOX MULDER WAS AN UNORTHODOX AGENT, TOO. BUT THE TRUTH WAS OUT THERE, AND HE FOUND IT, GUYS.)