For almost 38 years I’ve been subjected to a torture and a hell. Something that the overwhelming majority of society—and even members of my own family—finds baffling and threatens to ostracize me for. Something I’ve oftentimes had to conceal in the very interest of my own survival.
I hate Star Wars.
(Hides under desk)
I always have, from the first time I saw the original—in the theater— in 1977. (Keep in mind, I was a big Shaggy, D.A. and Apple Dumpling Gang fan, so that might explain things.)
Pretty sure I fell asleep.
Positive I walked out pissed-off that I hadn’t saved my $2.50 for admission to the new Benji movie that was opening the next week.
For the past few weeks—no, for the past year and a half—the entire world has been losing its effing mind with excitement and anticipation over the reboot, and I’ve kept my mouth shut. Sure, it’s mostly because I don’t want to be targeted by Storm Troopers or other Dark Side villains (and yes, I did just have to call my husband to make sure Storm Troopers were bad guys) but it’s also because honestly, I’ve been a bit envious of all the hype. But as much as I’d love to throw myself onto the bandwagon, I just can’t.
Why do I hate something that is so engraved into our culture? Something that has transcended generations and bound them together unlike almost anything else has been able to since our collective confusion of Donald Trump?
Because I don’t get it.
I mean, I actually do not get it.
Like, I don’t get the story itself.
But even four-year-olds understand the plot! I can hear you shouting while any respect you might have previously had for me plummets like Tom Cruise’s popularity
Seriously, you guys, I don’t care about it. The story loses interest for me like five minutes in. And then it’s all over. I’m thoroughly confused, and I don’t get it.
And I don’t care that I don’t get it. That’s how much I hate it.
Let me tick a few specifics off for you:
- Incessant bleep-bleep-bleeping noises that are passed off as dialogue
- Sasquatches and robots that are passed off as characters
- A backwards-talking gnome with terrible grammar that is passed off as a teacher
- Warp speed space travel that induces induces vertigo
- Humans interacting with aliens and other creatures as if that’s not all kinds of fucked up
But mostly, I can’t wrap my brain around the space stuff. And it’s not that I’m unable to suspend reality (see: The Shaggy, D.A.), it’s just that it’s simply—completely and exhaustingly—uninteresting to me.
Throughout my life I’ve quickly realized that I’m almost completely in the minority when it comes to my loathe for Star Wars and all the things associated with all seven or 18 movies.
In the year after the movie came out—and then in the next several when the sequels dominated life—all my friends were playing with Star Wars figures and playing Star Wars make-believe and wearing Star Wars shirts while I sat alone, begging for someone to let me make their Luke Skywalker figure be Chachi Arcola for like one stinkin’ second.
When my husband and I first moved in together, he came with an ugly glass and brass table, a worn and slightly foul-smelling chair, a binder full of hundreds of Star Wars collectible cards and multiple tubs of all his old action figures. Pretty sure he didn’t reveal those things until my name was on the lease.
By the time our daughter was three, playing with all those old figures was one of their favorite things to do together, which was my pass for an hour or two of solitude in a hot bath with my People Magazine. #hatredofStarWarsFTW
By the time she was four, she’d seen all the movies and their shared infatuation was fierce. #daddydaughterloveofStarWarsFTbiggerW
I can’t escape it, and I’ve given up trying because I’m old enough not to give a damn.
But seriously, May The Force Be With (the rest of) You this weekend as you get your fix.
And don’t hate me for this.
Wait until I write about my disinterest in Harry Potter for that.
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