Monday, May 11, 2009

Laura Comes Out of the Turbolift.

Although not like you think.

But come on, I've been single so long that it wouldn't make much of a difference either way.

Sports fans have all kinds of paraphenalia. It's everywhere. There are shirts--tee and jersey variety, various shorts, jackets, sweaters, and sweatshirts, hats, bumper stickers, and mock road signs all announcing which team is the favorite of each respective fan. In high school, I knew that Keegan loved the Cubs, Paul (not my brother Paul) loved the Oakland Raiders, and an abundance of people hated/loved IU or Purdue.

No one made any attempt to hide it. It was assumed that we all would be accepting of everything sports related. This is the USA, sports are cool here.

But not to me. I loved something different.

In junior high we could still carry backpacks to class. I always had a book with me, concealed within the backpack so that no one would see what book it was. Each and every one of them I had tracked down at used bookstores throughout our area. I would hand over a dollar and carry out four (sometimes five) ancient paperbacks. Once home, I used a mild bleach solution to clean the covers and the sides, then I weighted the books with our old encyclopedias so that the pages would not warp.

Once the books were de-mildewed, they could be added to my shelves and my reading list, and I was happy.

Inspired by the sixth movie, I read all of Sherlock Holmes. There I was, in seventh grade, carrying what appeared to be a largish dictionary from class to class, turning every bible-thin page carefuly to keep from tearing them.

And as time passed, and my television stations no longer allowed me to have contact with my favorite show(s), I consoled myself with each movie, each novel, until the Star Wars prequels were hinted at.

Which, by the way, I hated.

As I became less and less cool, if it were even possible, I continued to conceal the thing that I loved. I tried to keep it from being easily known in my school because North Miami kids never forgot anything you did wrong, ever and made sure you didn't either.

But I love Star Trek.

Seriously, I love it.

I have a whole shelf of Trek books, and I have some that I couldn't find in e-book form, because I had to read them.

And when I heard they were doing a new movie, I was thrilled. And when I saw it, it was the happiest movie-going experience of my life.


Best. Movie. Ever.

And on the drive home, I said to myself, "Star Trek is amazing. What do I care if people think I am a nerd. I am a nerd; I embrace it."

So right then and there I decided to "come out" to all of you as what I really am, a Trekkie.

With the "T" capitalized because I am that serious about it.

Still, I promise I won't buy fake ears or learn Klingon.


  1. I'm glad you embraced your inner Trekkie. I completely support your nerdiness.

    Though if you ever do learn Klingon, know that I just might pretend I don't know you. Or better yet, I might watch you fall on the ice and then step over you on my way to class while hoping that nobody saw you and I talking minutes before...

  2. You would not be the only person who stepped over my prone, twitching, brutally injured form and left me crumpled on the ice to slowly freeze to death or die of massive internal injuries suffered during my tragic fall. In fact, I think I remember a whole class of students doing that to me once before. Or maybe the brain damage sustained due to falling periodicals has clouded my memory...