Something happened to me over the weekend that I found so upsetting, so utterly disturbing, so completely horrific, that I hardly know what to do.
I became a Star Wars fan.
There are some basic truths upon which a person can build their lives, secure in the knowledge that there is an order to things in this big, crazy universe. The fact that Star Wars is less a series of movies than a big ole dork fest has long been one of my steadfast truths. Being able to point and laugh at Star Wars freaks has given me many solid years of feeling superior and in comparison, very good about me.
No matter what else I may have been, I was always better than that weird guy in a Darth Vader mask who slept in a tent for three weeks and peed in a 2 liter Mountain Dew bottle just so he'd be first in line.
Of course, I'm still better than him. But after having seen the movie, I can understand him a little better.
The last Star Wars movie I saw prior to this weekend featured Carrie Fisher with cinnamon buns on either side of her head. I was 13 or 14 years old and couldn't have cared less about it. In fact, I'm sure the only reason I went very likely had something to do with a boy. (Yet another one of my basic truths: Everything in life has something to do with a boy.) Each time a subsequent episode was released, I saw it as nothing more than another opportunity to make fun of people.
Needless to say, I had no idea prior to entering into holy matrimony with Mr. Man that he was one of the people I had made fun of all these years. He was a closet Star Wars fan, which means he kept his toy light saber in the bottom of his closet hidden under his stamp collection and his old AV equipment. Had I known he loved Star Wars movies, I would have never married him.
Ok. That's a total lie. You and I both know I would have rushed out and bought a cinnamon roll head dress myself and wore it every time he was around. Completely squashing my own likes and dislikes and transforming myself to please a man is how I get so many husbands. No man wants a woman who is her own person and can think for herself.
This weekend in an effort to vamp up the old marriage and not kill one another, we decided to go on a "date". I got all gussied up and put perfume behind my knees and he shaved and wore a clean shirt. We went out to a lovely steak dinner, where I watched him eat a prime rib that I strongly suspect hadn't even been cooked and he listened to me obsess about the fact that the salad bar was probably full of germs. It was very romantic.
Because I took a vow to love him in sickness and in health and I have always considered loving Star Wars movies a sickness, I said it would be fine to go see Episode III together, so long as he understood I planned to daydream about Gone With The Wind the entire time. For me to go to any movie in an actual movie theater is a huge undertaking anyway as my OCD sends me into red alert the minute I drive into the parking lot. A theater means people packed into a small room who bring with them a host of germs, noises and smells. I personally think they should sell disposable gas masks, gloves and seat protectors in the concession stand...which surely could not cost more than a soda does in these price gouging places.
When the movie started however, I was immediately and unwillingly sucked into the world of geekdom. It was an absolutely beautiful film to watch and before I knew it, I was praying to the all powerful George Lucas not to let Anakin cross over to the dark side. I actually left my theater seat in Small Town, Kansas and was helping Obi-Wan pilot his gunship in order to defeat those nasty monster shooter thingies that resembled flying metal spider monkeys. The only thing that I found upsetting about the whole spectacle was when Padme stood up to the newly named Darth and told him he was going down a path she could not follow.
It would have been far more in touch with reality had she turned to Obi-Wan and said through the snot bubbles she was blowing, "I know he seems like he's being mean right now, but he's not this way when it's just me and him. He's just upset because his mother died and he had too much too drink last night. I know he'll change if I just love him enough!" At this point, Darth would have said, "Come on baby, get in the truck," and they would have lived happily ever after in a trailer park. The only time we'd ever see them again would be on the occasional episode of COPS.
"You really enjoyed that movie?" asked Mr. Man on our way back home.
"Enjoy it, I did," I said. "The rest of the Star Wars movies, I must see." (Did I mention that I want a pet Yoda now instead of a pet monkey?)
"Since you're in such a good mood, you think I might get lucky tonight? I did buy you a steak and back in my dating days, steak equals nookie."
"I guess so," I said. "But I'm going to need you to drag your light saber out of the closet and make pretend sabery sounds from time to time. Oh, and I reserve the right to call you 'Obi'."
It's official, ladies and gentlemen. A geek is born. I'm off to be measured for my Queen of Naboo costume. I'll see you at the next convention.
Copyright © 2004-2005, Sherri Bailey
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