The height of dorkiness is me, actually. Sure, I may have a slightly better haircut than when I was a kid, and my clothes are stylish, thanks to my daughter, but in my heart of hearts, I’m a dork. This point was driven home last night as McIrish and I went to see “Star Trek.” Um…I loved it. And I have a crush on Mr. Spock. And when (teensy plot spoiler here) Leonard Nimoy made his cameo, I…er…got all choked up.
Star Trek reruns played on Saturday nights when I was a kid. Saturday nights in our family home meant my parents were going out. Mom had hot rollers in her hair and was redoing her makeup, Dad was shaving and whistling, and the three little Higgins kiddies were, in the great American tradition, glued to the TV set, watching Captain James T. Kirk of the USS Enterprise kicking Klingon butt.
I went to see all of the big screen movies. I remember when the words “In memory of Gene Roddenbury” flashed during the credits just after the creator of the show died, and I burst into applause. Someone in the audience shouted, “Get a life!” (it was New York, so there you go), but I didn’t care. I was grateful for the man who’d invented the Saturday evening entertainment of my youth. And last night, I once again felt the old ticker thumping away, even though I was quite sure Captain Kirk would prevail yet again. Space. The final frontier. Dorky? Absolutely. I embrace it. Live long and prosper!