I’ve been to conventions before. Star Wars, Star Trek, writing, reading,
work related...but my crowning jewel is Salt Lake City Comic Con. I’ve been
three times now. And once to FanEx, if you’re counting that.
Four glorious, stressful, feet throbbing, back aching, wallet taxing
times.
I’ve never been to a different Comic Con, but I figure it can’t be that
different. Size and shape may vary, but considering the subject matter, the
basics have to be similar. Crazed geeks run around in caped costumes or funny
t-shirts, looking at geeky merchandise like its gold, wading through the artist
and author booths searching for a diamond in the rough, waiting in long lines
to catch a glimpse of their favorite celebrities or doing their happy dance
when they get 8 whole seconds with said celebrity for a photo op.
Yes, they can really do it in 8 seconds. I was there. I counted.
All of these things are wonderful. And terrible. And if you’re PMSing,
you should probably bring a chocolate/caffeine IV and shove it under your
Carmon SanDiego trench coat. And pop a pain pill every two hours. Ignore the
warnings, the condition of your feet will be much, much worse.
First off, people touch you. Everywhere. Pretty sure no one was doing
it on purpose, but frankly, who can tell?
My husband is a big guy—tall and wide. So I’m used to getting pushed
around by his gut. (On the flip side, he’s great for parting a crowd, but I
need to install brake lights.) I’m quite conscious of my own spatial footprint
as well, and I do my best not to intrude on others.
Well, standing in line for one of the 8-second photo ops (there should be
a rodeo reference here, but my mind is drawing a blank) there was a man of
similar size and girth behind me. And granted, they did squish two lines
together, and most of us were bigger people. But I’m pretty sure that it wasn’t
necessary for the guy to be rubbing his gut on my back. For twenty minutes.
Each and every time I found some space to move forward, he closed the
gap again. His wife said nothing, and I’ve determined that he’s one of those
guys who doesn’t even think about it. He probably tailgates the person in front
of him on the freeway, no matter how slow or fast they’re going. It’s his happy
place.
Eventually I found a spot where I could take a few steps forward. I did
so, then conveniently turned with my elbow out to speak with one of the girls I
was with as he stepped in.
Take that buddy. I still have some ninja skills. He apologized (so did
I, fake is it might have been) and he finally backed off. Of course we were
only in line for another minute or so.
Other things that might send a PMSing woman over the edge are:
Teenagers, in all of their glory
Clueless adults
Vendors not listing the price of their items where you can see it
Having to turn left in the vendor booth area
Waiting in lines
The smell
The noise
The lack of anything resembling healthy food (this is okay for the
first two days…)
Tiny seats and big butts
Costumes with tall hats
Your cape getting caught on something (Edna knows what she’s talking
about)
Concrete floors
Yourself as you get more and more irritable
The bathrooms being nowhere near where you are (although the men lines
were longer than the women lines, which was somewhat refreshing)
However, unless one of these things will actually induce you to
violence, go anyway. Hide some chocolate in your pack and brave the crowds. It’s
awesome. It’s annoying. It’s hysterical. It’s amazing. It’s geek life at its
finest! Where else can you see a balloon AT-AT walker pointed at the T.A.R.D.I.S.? (Or close anyway.)
But don’t forget the drugs.
