When I was in the sixth grade we had a science project. I remember this well, we had to learn all about rockets and space travel. When we were to reach the end of all the information, we were going to have a test on what we learned.
Nothing new there right? Oh but there was……
The person who had the highest grade on the test was to be the one to “launch” a rocket, you know, the model rockets made from cardboard with a built in parachute for its descent…the ones that you would sometimes put a toad inside as a passenger (I never did that, but I heard he traveled well…not me I swear!) Those rockets seemed incredibly dangerous. I wonder if they’re still around?
Anyway, I decided that person was going to be me because, at the time, I thought I really wanted to go to space. I studied my sixth grade butt off, and much to the dismay of all the geeky boys in my class I aced that test. That test was mine, and I got to launch the rocket. They all glared at me through they’re sullen eyes during the countdown. Sorry boys.
My grandma declared that I was going to be the first women in space. She was positive I was going to be an astronaut.
I am sooo glad she was wrong, because according to this book there is nothing more unpleasant in every conceivable way than space travel. With the problems of the food going in and then the inevitable coming out the other end, I think maybe they should have just taped a diaper on and been done with it. All the cramped quarters, no way, I get claustrophobic in crowds. And then there is the high likely hood of death…and things like that.
Until the posh Star trek like space ships with gravity are invented I’ll pass on the trip to Mars.
And there is the end for my grandma’s dream.