As I enter my fifth year of marriage, I am humbled by how much I have changed. Perhaps most humbling is having to admit I am now a "Star Trek" fan.
You won't catch me donning Spock ears at a Star Trek convention. But I admit I look forward to watching "Star Trek: Voyager" each Wednesday evening with Bruce, my husband. A lifelong sci-fi fan, he has enjoyed "Star Trek" since watching the original TV show in reruns. The 1960s series ran only three years, but inspired three spinoffs and nine movies.
I used to detest all of "Star Trek's" manifestations because I considered them contrived. For the first two years of our marriage, I could not sit through an episode of "Voyager" or "Deep Space Nine," both of which Bruce watched weekly.
I figured only my computer-programmer husband and those like him could appreciate the shows' techno-babble. He seemed engrossed in characters' discussions of spatial anomalies, while my main concern was about eating dinner on time.
I teased Bruce about the shows being male soap operas. Men wouldn't watch "Melrose Place," but put a blonde on a spaceship, give her a phaser, and suddenly the show is worthwhile. In his good-natured way, Bruce found my comments amusing, but kept watching.
Then, when I wasn't looking, "Star Trek" seeped into me. I began identifying with the plight of "Voyager's" crew, whose stories I heard in the background while I read or cleaned.
Thousands of light-years from home, they search the uncharted Delta Quadrant for a shortcut to Earth. I shared their disappointment when a wormhole, one shortcut, closed too soon. I experienced their relief when they outwitted the Borg, who violently assimilate into their collective any intelligent species they encounter.