I went there. I listened to a panel made of women who weren’t very good at talking about what the panel was supposed to be on. I pushed through the exhibit area where people were selling things I didn’t understand.
Mostly though, I stared at the attendees, wondering how we could all be of the same species and yet so different.
I have nothing against comic book nerds. They stay in their corner of the world and I stay in mine–whatever my undefinable corner is. But when our two worlds collide, I admit it makes me uncomfortable. First, I feel out of place, knowing I don’t have a clue what makes their world so enticing. Second, I feel embarrassed, hoping no one thinks I’m a part of that world just because I accompanied someone to the convention. This second feeling is even more ridiculous than the first, since anyone who might accidentally think I’m a part of it would think it’s cool. It’s also ridiculous because no one would mistakenly think I’m a part of it. I just can’t fake that kind of allegiance and fascination and wonder these people have for the art form. I can’t pretend I’m a part of this special society of outcasts-turned-role-models who know more about expressing themselves without shame than I ever will.
And that’s why, when I say I have nothing against comic book nerds, what I mean is I’m jealous of them.