Most nights at the dinner table, I think to myself that we – my sisters and friends and I – never talked about stuff like this. The Falcons game when Matt Ryan…. But Aaron Rodgers is… Who’s better at…. Who’s gonna win at…..
And the other day, overhearing my ten-year-old son and his friend argue the merits of Iron Man and Black Panther, I caught myself thinking the same. Boys are so different.
But then, I remembered Sabrina.
In my mind, she was the best Charlie’s Angel. The smart one. Never the one who sprained her ankle, got caught by the bad guy, or was stupid enough to fall for him. If we were playing Charlie’s Angels, I claimed her. She was going to solve the crime.
Kelly, of course, was a fan favorite, or Jill, or Chris, and their merits could be argued, for sure. Better hair, if nothing else. But I always fought for Sabrina, the grown-up, slightly nerdy tomboy.
Iron Man. Black Panther. Iron Man. Black Panther.
“The suit made him. He wasn’t a real superhero.”
“He made the suit. His brain made him a superhero.”
She was the smartest. The prettiest. The fastest. The bravest. The best.
Iron Man. Black Panther.
Sabrina. Kelly. Jill.
And then… Joe. Beth. Amy. Meg.
Laura. Mary. Carrie.
And we – my sisters and friends and I – talked about stuff like that all the time.