The Mirror Has Two Faces: I'm not the only one with two selves.For the last week, I have been asking myself the same question countless times per day: What would Secret Rebecca do?

Secret Rebecca was born out of my inability to see myself on the cover of the New York Times Book Review, or waking up in a $10-million-dollar house in Malibu, or leading my 10-child brood—half birthed, half acquired—through the more complicated harmonies in the Sound of Music score.

The Secret requires constant positive visualization, but when I’m sitting on my couch watching Sex and the City on demand with an empty bag of baked Cheetos (come on, they’re baked!), it’s hard to pretend I’m a skinny person who has eschewed TV for the meditative, life-affirming power of a saltwater fish tank.

Secret Rebecca is that person.

Secret Rebecca looks like me, except she’s thin and her hair is less frizzy. She loves waking up at 6 am for yoga and she thinks that if fruit and ice cream had equal nutritional values, everyone would choose fruit because it really does taste better. Secret Rebecca is not creatively paralyzed—neither by fear of failure, or success—and so she manages to churn out one excellent book a year. She’s not delusional—she knows she’s no Phillipa Roth—but she sees no reason she shouldn’t be able to earn a living by writing quality trade paperbacks. So many dumb people do! But Secret Rebecca doesn’t think of them as dumb people. Why waste time and energy harboring negative emotions? Secret Rebecca thinks, Good for them! They’re following their bliss! They’re doing the best with what they’ve got! Unlike Rebecca, who thinks, if I had just a little less obsessive self-awareness I could have published ten books by now and bought myself a nice little pad overlooking the Barnes and Noble on Astor Place from which I could drop water balloons on all the entitled double-stroller-pushers attending chick lit signings with their nannies. Secret Rebecca moonlights as a chick-lit writer under a pen name, just for fun. She donates all the proceeds to an anonymous send-a-nanny-to-college fund.

Don’t think that Rebecca and Secret Rebecca are always at odds. Secret Rebecca is a touchstone for Rebecca, a beacon of hope: Above her, written in the clouds, is a message: Your very same DNA could have gone this way. The fantasy is oddly comforting and very liberating. Could I really be a completely different person just by doing different things? Working with this same set of cells, could I fashion myself a happy, successful, highly contributing member of society (instead of a high-functioning underachiever who feels a sense of accomplishment every time she empties the dishwasher)?

So I am trying to trick myself into becoming Secret Rebecca (surely I’d be happier free of my self-destructive—OK, masochistic—reflex?) by asking myself what she would do in the face of my daily predicaments.

W.W.S.R.D.?

Secret Rebecca wouldn’t hit the snooze button with the fervor of a Jeopardy contestant. She’s got miles to run, words to write! Besides, she goes to bed promptly at eleven each night, after a cup of chamomile tea and half an inch of The Brothers Karamazov (books after 1970 only on weekends!), so she’s had plenty of rest by 6.30.

Secret Rebecca wouldn’t take an impulsive $20 cab ride just because her feet hurt; she knows that money would better serve her—and the world—put away in a green growth mutual fund. After all, $20 per day is $600 per month! She’d be invited to sit at Al Gore’s table at the Obama inauguration!

Secret Rebecca’s resolve wouldn’t shrivel at the sight of a Starbucks—SR knows that not only does purchasing a Double Tall Nonfat Caramel Macchiato increase her diabetes risk, but it also impacts the guy slumped in the cab of the tin truck on the corner. You see, Secret Rebecca is a trendsetter, so if people see her buying her coffee—black, no sugar—from Mario’s Koffee Kart, they’ll follow suit, and his business will increase 20 percent! Then it’s just a matter of time before she convinces him to go organic.

Secret Rebecca wouldn’t hold a grudge if a date bailed out of dinner at the last minute. She wouldn’t order two full entrees from the Japanese delivery place, shamefully asking the waitress for three sets of chopsticks for her imaginary friends, and camp out in front of the Gimme a Break marathon on TBS. She would go to the restaurant alone with a red rose in her hair and let the chef order for her. She wouldn’t even bring a book. She’d sit there, eyes fluttering in gastronomic ecstasy, savoring every bite of young eel offal, and her wine and dessert would be free. Three waiter/actors would fall in love with her self-possession and adventurous palate.

Do you hate Secret Rebecca? My friends and family do. Not because of who she is or how she acts—after all, I think everyone in my life would like to see me a little more pro-active and positive—but because her mere existence sort of renders me certifiable. I seem to be suffering from AAOMPD—acquired adult onset multiple personality disorder.

I think it is the exhilarating sense of escape this alternate, Sliding-Doors self offers that has me wondering what Secret Rebecca would do, more than the possibility I might one day shapeshift into her. Though a “better” life might be an ancillary benefit?