I readily, willingly and unabashedly admit it: I’m a Buffy fan.

Close your mouths. It’s not pretty.

I used to be a little more reticent about such a personal revelation, but it’s been ten years since the show first aired, and since then I’ve successfully managed to convert a few girlfriends and a wife into fans. So, if I go down, I’m bringing them with me. (Speaking of which, my lovely wife, The Insta-Princess, even performed a magic trick or two and abracadabra’d a poster of Buffy (and co-horts) into a framed poster of Buffy (and co-horts). I know, I know… she’s mystical like that—ya gotta be in awe of her. She’s even allowed me to hang it up on the wall. In full view of friends, relatives, guests, child protective services, and everyone. Obviously, she is gracious as well as beautiful and powerful.)

So, while I’m comfortable with my own personal Buffy lurve, I admit that I’m afraid of the rest of Buffy’s fans. See, you’d think that come this Friday, waiting in line to see the musical episode on the silver screen, we’d have something in common. But, we don’t. I bathe, for example; I can’t guarantee the same about them. Normally, I don’t bake a cake for the creator of the show on his birthday; again, I make no promises about the rest of the fans. They pass food along to each other, down from one end of the line to the next; I demur. They, it seems, are happy; me, I’m old and grumpy. I can’t even stand it when they sing songs in line.

But, the Insta-Princess? She loves them. Absolutely adores them. Of course, I’m sure it doesn’t hurt her feelings any that the men love women—any women, but especially the pretty ones—and are immediately solicitous when the girls show up.

“May I buy you a soda?”

“Maybe some popcorn?”

“How about a car?”

“Please look at me. I’m lonely.”

So, why am I going to a Buffy sing-a-long with the Insta-Princess this Friday?

Because, alas, I’m also a fan. And, stupid.

Sigh.