...was oh so long ago, and it was with a man from outer space.
I don't think I had even reached the delicate age of ten when I first encountered the most super of all men. It was on the silver screen, but the experience had such a big impact on me. I know, I know, pretty boys aren't usually my type; I've said that often enough. But I made an exception early on for Christopher Reeve's Superman.
Maureen McGovern's song Can You Read My Mind struck a chord within me, too. It still makes me teary-eyed to this day.
But back to the topic of Superman himself. That part in the first movie where he flew above the Earth was so awesome, I thought. And the part where he took Lois on an evening flight. *sigh* So romantic! I was too young then to think about the more intimate aspects of his relationship with Ms. Lane, thank goodness! Why complicate simple matters like heroism and love with icky things like sex? ;-D
Now, I know better (I think). I've learned that setting someone on a pedestal can perpetuate the illusion of his perfection, but does not make it real. That even the best of men can have feet of clay. That they can't save you when you think you need saving, because only you yourself can really do that. That even the most super of men can do incomprehensibly crazy things, such as wearing bright-blue, tight-fitting Spandex AND their bright-red underpants over their equally bright blue tights -- with bright red boots to match.
But those things don't really matter in the big scheme of things. The capacity to love and be loved can triumph over intergalactic issues like wardrobe malfunctions and maybe even the time-space continuum.
Imperfect as I've discovered he can be, almost three decades later, I still believe in Superman. (and in super sex)