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On a recent trip to a department store, I was delighted when a stockboy came over with an armload of Uhura action figures.
"These are going on sale tomorrow, but I'll mark them down for you now if you take the lot. They're covered in so much dust, they're practically a health hazard " he explained.
You're probably thinking 'what a lovely surprise.' But while it was lovely, it wasn't a surprise. At least not for me. For one thing I was dressed liked this:
Plus I'd parked my car out front and it tends to get noticed:
Throughout my life, I've regularly had Star Trek action figures or horga'hns offered to me by people I don't know. Once a young man dressed as Ferengi asked me to massage his lobes. Another time a fight broke out between two homeless men standing close to me on a city street. The police put it down to meth, but I knew the men were suffering from Pon Farr, a neurological imbalance brought on by my innate Trekkie-ness.
While I'm no Seven of Nine, I am good-looking. For a Trekkie.
But there are down sides. The main one being that non-Trekkies hate me for no other reason than my extensive knowledge of the Star Trek universe, both canonical and non-canonical. If you're a non-Trekkie reading this you've probably already formed your own opinion about me -- and it won't be very flattering. For while doors have been opened (literally) as a result of my being a Trekkie (by the way: when will sensor-operated, pocket-doors become de rigeur?), just as many have been metaphorically slammed in my face -- usually by people who don't recognize that I'm wearing my beloved cosplay Betazoid wedding ensemble.
I'm not illogical and I'm no green-blooded hobgoblin, yet I find this fascinating. Over the light years I've been dropped by countless non-Trekkie friends who felt threatened if I merely uttered a single "Qapla'" or attempted a Vulcan Neck pinch. If their partners dared offer to play a round of Tongo with me, a sudden chill would descend upon Ten-Forward.
You'd think that non-Trekkies would applaud me for making so much effort to wear only fashions inspired by alien races featured on Star Trek. I work hard on my appearance. I don't drink anything but synethol, prune juice or Earl Grey tea. When it comes to chocolate, I'm no Deanna Troi. I work out, even when not on shore leave. Unfortunately, non-Trekkies find nothing more annoying than someone who lives the Roddenberry-way.
Take last week, when a neighbour driving passed me on the road did not acknowledge nor return my Vulcan salute. According to a mutual friend -- who is a Browncoat -- it's because the neighbour is afraid her husband is becoming a Trekkie. Her fear is based upon his comment that this photo makes him "giggle like Miri when she's alone with Kirk:"
As a result of these types of slights (and I have many, many anecdotes I could share -- just ask!), I find non-Trekkie social outings nerve-wracking. More and more, I am forsaking my beloved jumpsuits and dressing "normally." I've even started to leave my Bajoran earring at home.
I'm almost 39 (by the way, if I was a Vulcan I'd still be an adolescent) and I'm fully embracing the efforts of JJ Abrams, Zachary Quinto, and Chris Pine to make Star Trek