I am one of the 1,058 worldwide applicants who were chosen to continue in Round 2 of the selection process for Mars One (and apparently one of only 20 or so over the age of 55 in the United States).

How do I feel about this? Excited, hands down.

But perhaps I’m in denial. Why me? I’m not *that* special. The whole thing is kind of unreal, hard to believe. I have to pinch myself. Maybe they only had 1,100 applicants and 42 of them screwed up the application by mistyping their own email address? Maybe their PR guys told them to accept a bunch of old people so they wouldn’t get sued? Whatever the reason, whether there were only 2,000 applications or 200,000, I’m still in the running–and I’m taking it seriously. Wheeeee!

Why Mars? Well, duh: Because it’s there. And it’s part of a big mystery, a puzzle waiting to be solved. Do I really believe there are aliens there? Not really. Alien lifeforms? Well, maybe fungus or something, though I think it’s unlikely. My science knowledge is somewhat sketchy. We won’t know till we get there, will we? (And by that time, I hope I’ve soaked up a bit more knowledge about such things. And mechanical stuff. Have I mentioned that’s not my forté?)

I’m okay with it being a one-way trip, I really am. That’s not to say, I won’t miss Elliott–I will, enormously. And I’ll really miss the girls. How will their lives turn out? Will they be happy? I’ll never have the chance to hold grandchildren, but maybe I’ll be a part of an opportunity for those potential grandchildren, or somebody else’s grandchildren. We’re doing a pretty good job messing up this planet; I’d like to think I could help get started on the right track on another one where we’re maybe not so insensitive to what’s around us. (Note to daughters: Do not go out and get pregnant on my account…No! No no no no no no no!)

But that’s assuming I even make it. I will be in the neighborhood of 72 years old at the time this takes off, and probably somewhat akin to the canary in the coal mine. After all, if a 72-year-old dies trying to repair a whatchamacallit off the whosit somewhere out in deep space on a long leash (remember, mechanical stuff is not my forté), everyone can say I had a long, happy, exciting life. If a 23-year-old dies, it’s a PR nightmare. (Who, off the Challenger, do you remember most? The young happy teacher and mother of young kids or the older professionals? Can you even name someone other than Christa McAuliffe?)

Why me? Maybe because I don’t have an agenda, other than seeing this whole thing work on Mars. Not just work, I’ll say thrive. I want the Mars One colony to thrive on Mars. I don’t want to populate it with evangelican Christian babies (or fill in whatever group you want); I don’t want to exploit it more than necessary; I don’t care whether people are Democrats or Republicans. Okay, yes, I do have an agenda: to make it worthy of a dream for someone else to follow. Idealistic? Heck, yes.

Or maybe because they were desperate? Nah, I’d rather think the selection panel was intelligent, discriminating, and persnickety. Yeah, I would.

Mars One is a nonprofit organization geared toward getting humans on Mars in about 2024. You can find out more information at http://www.mars-one.com, and they have a fundraiser at Indiegogo, http://www.indiegogo.com/projects/mars-one-first-private-mars-mission-in-2018. (Fundraising will be, I suspect, a key part of applicants’ ability to progress…though I’m not a salesperson. Go look, see if you think it’s worthwhile, fund if you do. There.)

I’ll keep you posted…eventually. In the meantime, if you see me wearing a bracelet that says WWMD and I’m doing something particularly crazy, it does NOT mean What Would Morons Do.