Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star

Yesterday afternoon, I was talking to a co-worker about the events of the day. He said he'd been in late that day because he spent most of the morning with his daughter's elementary school class, on a field trip to the planetarium.

He waxed enthusiastic about this trip—how this newer planetarium had so many capabilities, the "guide" was so knowledgeable and interesting, the kids really enjoyed it ...

"Have you been to the planetarium?" He asked.

I answered in the negative, only remembering a few minutes later that I had, indeed, been to that planetarium. I just wasn't awake for it.

I love planetariums. I have an enthusiastic, amateur's interest in nearly all scientific topics. I love hearing about the history and advances of science, and learning a little bit more about our world. Unfortunately, I retain very little of it afterwards. But I still find it exciting.

And I feel the same intellectual excitement about planetariums. The bad thing is that the dim lights and soothing ambient music overrides my mental fervor, and I find myself slowly slipping into a light sleep. The "sky" fades from twilight into darkest night, and my eyelids become heavier and heavier.

Just a few days ago, Keith and I were commenting on how well we could see the stars on early morning runs. We both could clearly pick out Orion's belt—something I've never been able to identify before. I was strictly Big Dipper/Little Dipper, and any other constellations were beyond me.

So hopefully, even though I've slept through the majority of the presentations, I've managed to retain a few kernels of knowledge from my many trips to the planetarium. And I'll keep going, with eternal hope that one day I'll actually stay wide awake for the entire thing. At least I'm catching up on my sleep in the meantime.