Who?

The buzzing of the engines. The flashing of the blue box coming into view. Two travelers popping their heads out of the door, taking in their new scenery. Many episodes of Doctor Who start just like this. It wouldn't matter if they all did, I can't get enough. That engine buzz calls out to me and makes me long to hear it out my window. Would I go? If the Doctor stood outside my door and beckoned me to come, would I be brave enough? Duh... I would go in a heartbeat. Kiss my life as I know it goodbye and see the Universe. Perhaps I'd sip a little tea with Jane Austen. I would definitely visit the public baths in Rome. I'd probably even go back to the beginning. See where it all started.I mean we are talking space AND time. The options are limitless.

Unfortunately, the only blue box crossing my path is the cardboard cutout hanging above my bed on the wall. The one my husband seems to think he needs to explain to the cable guy so he doesn't think we are weirdos. He, apparently, thinks my obsession is something to shamefully hide and never discuss in polite company. He's so embarrassed that he offered to watch it with me so I'd discuss it with him instead of other people. You know, our little secret. It probably also came from a place of caring and a willingness to spend time doing something I love, but its definitely mostly from embarrassment. Joke's on him. Through social media I was able to connect with likeminded Doctor Who fans. Thousands of us from around the world post and discuss our theories and favorite episodes. They understand how much my heart breaks when Ten cries “I don’t want to go.”

I have a Tardis wallet that I carry around in my faux designer purse. Twenty years ago, I am not sure I would have been so brave. There is so much strength in our numbers. I once passed a guy on the street wearing a shirt that said “Wibbly Wobbly Timey Wimey.” I pointed to his shirt and gave him a thumbs up. He responded with a huge smile. We don’t have to hide anymore underground in our basements anymore. We are everywhere. We, being those who are stricken with fear at the mention of Daleks and Weeping Angels. Those are my people. Not the moms sitting around me at the PTA meeting. They ask me questions like, “Will you be serving popcorn at the school carnival again this year.” I nod in response. I am always willing to do my part, but I cannot be my true self in front of these women that I have to sit across from every day with a fake smile plastered on my face. They wouldn’t understand. They would judge and mock me. I did let my guard down once around them. My daughter’s friend’s mom tried to create a sense of comaraderie with me. She reminisced about her days in high school cheer and asked me about mine. I informed her that cheer was never my thing. She was surprised. “So what were you into?” she asked. I told her of my love of books and Sci-Fi. I asked her if she had ever heard of Doctor Who. She scoffed and replied that she had (unfortunately) but that she never hung out around nerds. My daughter was horrified. This was the exact scenario my husband had tried to avoid, so for her sake, I keep it to myself when in public. The only things now that give me away are my little souvenirs that only fans would recognize. The little souvenirs that connect me to my people.