I am a trekkie.
I believe it was when the words, “The Grand Negus’s suit—awesome!” came out of my mouth that I knew I had crossed over. It was either that or when a nearly photographic mental cataloging of Deanna Troi’s rising and falling hairdos, necklines, and hems started running through my head. Or maybe it was when I spotted the words ‘Utopia Planitia’ on the reproduction engineering island and actually knew what they meant.
Even now, I’m sitting here thinking, “Of course Data’s brother is Lore, but everyone knows that!” If everyone does know that, then I’m still like everybody else. If not, then I’ve got a one-way ticket to the Delta quadrant.
I think my trekkie-dom was solidly confirmed when I looked back on my college career and realized that I’d spent 7-8 pm every Saturday night watching Star Trek: The Next Generation with my boyfriend (guess who?). Then it was confirmed again, last week, when I found myself giving the children a Star Trek movie crash course the day before the exhibition (the pop-culture illiteracy…tragic!). Then at the exhibit, it was confirmed yet again, when I started explaining to another family that the odd Star Trek movies are bad and the even ones are good…you get the idea.
While I may be a superfan, I do not speak Klingon. I don’t know the year of Captain Kirk’s graduating class. I do not know Leonard Nimoy’s hat size. I have not and never will dress in a Star Trek uniform, although I did have a very good approximation of one (courtesy of Talbot’s—not bought by me) back in the ’90’s .
I’m not redecorating my house a la the Starship Enterprise, and I’m not taking spins around town in my homemade version of Christopher Pike’s motorized wheelchair. I’m not showing up for jury duty in a Star Trek uniform, and I’m not going to a Trek-themed dentist.*
However, considering my self-realizations, I will no longer laugh at the people who do.
Well, maybe just a little.