Lost, lost...normalcy is lost...and I must embrace the fact that has been inevitable since I first saw Star Wars...I've turned to the dark side, and it's only a matter of time before William Shatner jumps out from behind my CD tower and tells me to "get a life." (Yes, even though it's "the wrong show.")
Yeah, it was gradual. Frame-by-frame, if we retrace our steps. Perhaps it was seeing the original trilogy about 50 times on Channel 11 and then in the grainy splendor of VHS. (I lost count after that). I can probably blame my brother a little bit for his extensive collection of Star Wars figures that taught me all the names of the obscure but memorably designed creatures like Max Rebo, Admiral Akbar, Nien Nunmb and Salacious Crumb. They even helped me in school. When I had difficulties pronouncing the word "admirable" (I kept saying "adMYrable"), I mnemonicked: "Oh, like "Admirable Akbar." And when a PSAT section on analogies used the word Rancor, I knew it couldn't be good and looked for the closest analog to "big angry monster with lots of teeth that Jabba the Hutt might keep under his floor to eat errant slave girls and pig-faced guards."
Clearly, the establishment of a "May the Force Be With Us" category on this site was one symptom. The late-night immersion in conspiracy and sci-fi via the X-Files was another. And my falling head over heels with my new Wired subscription was like the tingling in in your left arm that signals a coronary event. But the good kind that sparks your awareness of yourself, that makes you feel alive, you know, like the feeling of the wind in your rumpled hair as you glide across the hot sands of Tatooine in morning, under the heat of two suns fighting each other for supremacy of sunrise in the reddish gold sky.
And then there was the sentence I wrote in my book proposal, which I include contextless here, so you can see how deep the psychosis goes: "I feel suddenly ill, like Obi-Wan Kenobi, who sensed the destruction of an entire planet and was physically weakened." I had internalized the language in less than ten parsecs. It was time to go off to Taschi to pick up some power converters.
And my odd fascination with this StarWars.com feature that analyzes frame-by-frame how the 1980 version of ESB differs from the 2004 rerelease, down to the last gas trail from rebel snow speeders on Hoth. And my obsession with the names of Star Wars and whether they're of biblical or Hebrew origin. There was my going to a late-night showing of Episode 3, even though it wasn't opening night. There was the fact that I went to see this show. Twice.
Beyond the galaxy far, far away, there was other geekitude, but most of your probably viewed it as a girlish weakness for all things Whedon. Beyond Buffy and Angel, there have been other symptoms. Even before I subscribed to David Pogue's posts, or became a blogger, or delighted in Lifehacker, and before I started beginning all my sentences with "There was this really cool gadget in Wired that...", there were signs that I was getting in too deep. And you all are complicit in my nerdicization, for you did nothing to prevent it. I hope you're happy with yourselves.