There he goes. Neil Armstrong, the first man to walk on the moon in my last pair of clean underwear. Why does he get to be the first one anyway? The directors of NASA were all like well, it’s the right thing to do, symbolically. He has seniority. Because the guy with enough maturity to fill my helmet with water and a goldfish named Apollo Oh No should definitely be the first-in-command.
And yeah, technically, it does make more sense for him to exit first because of the basic structure of the Eagle’s hatch door. Sure, he could just move aside and I could squeeze out, but that would be a little awkward and difficult to maneuver. Definitely nothing those years of practicing every second of the mission and training in how to withstand g-forces and navigate in zero gravity conditions could prepare us for.
And it’s not like I actively campaigned to be the first to walk on the moon anyway. I definitely didn’t put up posters around the office with a picture of my face superimposed on the American flag with the caption “Who deserves this monumental honor? BUZZ DOES!” But perhaps it is better for the guy who “accidentally” gave me a pot brownie even though he knows they give me a bad high to be the first to plant those size 13’s on the lunar landscape.
Oh, I can tell he wants this. He’s been rehearsing that small step line for months. Every single time he walks up or down a set of stairs or spots someone going downstairs or sees a flat surface that looks like it could be used to place your foot when moving from one level to another. And I mean maybe a guy who purposefully trips his lunar module pilot during the low gravity simulation and yells “One giant leap!” deserves to don the big white space suit while the entire world watches. Yeah, I’m not at all pissed that the guy who ate the last of the astronaut ice cream on my birthday is the first man to walk on the moon while I’m standing here holding the door for him.
— ADJ ’18