What It’s Like Being Married to a Giant Geek

[A helpful primer for non-geek friends, as well as gleeful self-identification for all our friends, who are 90% geek. Please feel free to leave your own qualifiers in the comments.]

You know what the MCE is, how many movies are in it, and what their chronological order is. Ditto a “multiverse.”

Christmas and birthdays are a snap because they have a 15-page Amazon wishlist, even helpfully prioritized from highest to lowest, mostly made up of books/movies/collectible figurines. “Ahh, yes … the Doctor Who pocket watch will be the big gift, followed by three Batman books.” Click, click, click, DONE.

You have to maintain separate Hulu/Netflix/Amazon Prime queues because HIS NERD SHIT IS NOT GETTING MIXED UP WITH MY NERD SHIT.

You have separate bookshelves for the same reason.

You are dragged to every theatrical release of a comic book and/or action movie, but God forbid he’d take you to see a period piece or drama.

You have suffered countless hours of listening to the analysis of characters and/or the actors who play them. Examples include: Trying to rank the greatest Catwomans (Eartha Kitt, Michelle Pfeiffer, Julie Newmar, Lee Meriweather … Halle Berry is always dead last. She is referred to as Hollywood’s Hell.) Whether or not it’s a tragedy that the first movie in a series was re-done/had a reboot/was re-cast (see Ang Lee’s “Hulk” and my husband’s comment: “Oh, the Norton version will be much better; Ang’s had way too much of an inner life.”) OH GOD, KILL ME NOW. I have lost track of how many times Spider-Man has been restarted, or how many Spider-Mans there have actually been and who they are, or which ones I liked. My lack of an Excel-spreadsheet brain in such matters means I’m always pleasantly surprised when I’m channel-surfing and come across one. “Oh yeah, Tom Holland, I like him.”

Your gift for foreign languages is totally unappreciated, except when needed to translate a non-subtitled foreign bit in some piece of geek media. Example: “Why are you oblivious to me whispering in your ear in French that I want your strong arms around me right now, and that your face is my heart, but you poke my ribs like a cattle prod to translate what Black Widow just said??! PRIORITIES.”

You have at least one mannequin in your basement and it has a fandom costume on it, most likely homemade.

Grounds for divorce include: not even LIKING the original Star Wars, because they’re boring, and patently refusing to see any new ones, even after he has asked literally 7 times (yes, I counted); being less than thrilled that friends are coming over for a 14-hour marathon of extended-cut Lord of the Rings blu-rays (yes, this happened, but it was redeemed by the fact that we had first breakfast, second breakfast, elevensies, lunch, afternoon tea, dinner, supper, and I fell asleep on the floor for about two hours); bending the spines of his books too much, if he even lets you touch them at all (see British editions, first editions, or signed editions he keeps IN PAPER BAGS on the shelves so they don’t even see the light of day — call me crazy, but I like to SEE my books and show them off); not understanding what connection Vanilla Ice has to the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

You constantly argue over surface space. The acquisition of a Batman cookie jar can send an otherwise well-adjusted woman (me) over the edge. “WE DON’T HAVE ROOM FOR THIS SHIT.”

On the other hand, you have a proper t-shirt for any occasion.

The cognitive dissonance of admiring all the kids’ stuff he has, because ALL of our era kids’ stuff was cool (except the Lego Millennium Falcon, because really, who gives a shit) … while simultaneously mocking his “classic” TV collections on blu-ray because neither he nor anyone else (certainly not me) will ever watch them again because they’re so esoteric (see: The Prisoner, HR Pufnstuf, the Six Million Dollar Man.) “BUT I’M A COLLECTOR.” Uh huh. Why don’t you sell that dust-collecting crap and collect us a Mexican beach vacation. Much more useful than some giant orange ball chasing a dude, in my humble opinion.

On the other hand … sometimes a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity comes along, and he spends hundreds of dollars to take you, and you get to breathe the air of one of your heroes, and look right in his eyes … and it’s like a tiny piece of heaven — that grand, exciting, make-believe life that other people on this planet live — has landed in your lap for one minute. Your heart actually stops. The Tenth Doctor smiles into your eyes like you’re an old friend.

You know what, geek husband? We’re good.

Oh, yes. We’re good.

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