My father took me to see Chuck Norris in 1988. When you’re a divorced father and Chuck Norris is at the local mall, it’s considered ‘something to do with the kids’ when a local celebrity comes to town.
I remember that day very clearly. I was both indifferent and curious, like most thirteen-year-old girls feel about everything. I was also conflicted about the event because Chuck Norris was a celebrity, which was kind of cool; however, he was a minor celebrity and this was well before Walker Texas Ranger.
I had all sorts of deep thoughts about going to the mall:
- Should I tell my friends at school about seeing Chuck Norris?
- Would they make fun of me?
- Would there be any cute boys?
- Am I pretty?
- Would I ever have a husband?
- How long am I going to have these stupid braces?
- Would I be rich, someday?
We stood in line for several hours and it was an unremarkable event. Chuck Norris seemed small. My feet hurt. I was surrounded by people who liked karate and jujitsu. My brother was fidgety and I’m pretty sure he pretended to hit me with imaginary nun-chucks.
It was a long day, and I looked around at the people in line and decided that I was not — nor would I ever be — a fan of Chuck Norris.
I was wise beyond my years.