My wonderwomanhood began in London at age 5 when my visiting grandparents gave me a pair of American Underoos. They were blue on the top and red on the bottom with a yellow belt and three “buttons” that did absolutely nothing when you pressed them. I’d never heard of Wonder Woman before which was fortunate because it turned out these were Supergirl Underoos. Still, it was explained by my parents, using the visual aid of the packaging and a deft, long-forgotten reason for the large S on the tank top, that Wonder Woman was the owner of these unlikely undergarments; she had magical powers, incredible strength, speed and agility, and wearing this get-up would endow me with supernatural mojo.

I have always been a scientist. I was deeply skeptical. I wore the Underoos to school for weeks, patiently awaiting an opportunity to field test the veracity of what I’d been told. The day arrived when the teacher stepped out to the loo and the boys began their usual taunting. Henry was being particularly awful. He made Arabella and Jemima cry. I gave everyone fair warning that we girls were not to be trifled with. Henry went one taunt further and I had no choice but to make good on my threat. I locked everyone out of the classroom, took off my clothes and exploded into the hallway in my Supergirl Underoos, fists raised and screaming at the top of my lungs “I AM WONDER WOMAN!” For pure shock value, I give myself an A+. The girls cheered. The boys scattered. Henry hid in the broom closet. The teacher returned and politely asked me to put my clothes back on which I was more than happy to do. I was freezing, but I was no longer skeptical.

No endeavor I’ve undertaken since has been so cleanly successful. Like a lab technician trying to replicate my results, I blame the overwhelming success of this first outing for my subsequent compulsive, often misguided attempts at speaking out against injustice.

There was the fact-heavy lecture on everything Madonna has done for women which I delivered to an all-male group of “music experts” after they disparaged her on a conference call titled “World of Madonna.” (Wonderlesson: Honesty doesn’t get you invited to future meetings; use wisely.)

There was the casting meeting for a screenplay I wrote when I called out the creative executive for compiling an all-white list of actors. (Wonderlesson: Strategy, not reactivity, wins the war.)

There was the music industry Christmas party when I confronted a group of grown men surreptitiously taking pictures of a young woman’s ass. During a tense face-off in which it appeared one of the guys was going to haul off and punch me, I stood my ground and introduced myself, offering to shake his hand until he stormed off. I later recounted the story to my boyfriend and he was so traumatized that I had to accompany him to his therapist’s office (also male) where they spent an hour explaining the error of my ways. Could I understand how my confrontational behavior might put my boyfriend in a vulnerable position at a future date? Yes. Yes, I could. (Wonderlesson: Principles sometimes cost relationships. This is often a good thing in the long run.)

I’ve also failed to be Wonder Woman without an obvious principle at stake. For example, I’ve worn impractical shoes in every circumstance imaginable. Most Saturday night outfits between the ages of 17–25 were a Wonder Woman #FAIL. I once permitted a first date to tell me I reminded him of his mother after I drove him to dinner and picked up the check. I later didn’t object when the same guy parked his unemployed ass on my couch for six months. (There’s nothing in the superhero handbook about “ill-advised rescuing” but I’m 100% certain Diana Prince would’ve kicked this guy to the curb on Day 1, directly after dinner.)

Since I’m confessing, I’ll also admit I once saw my reflection in a shop window and stopped to adjust the height of my ponytail during a half marathon race, and I purposely go to the car wash where the owner calls me “sweetheart.” Oddly-timed vanity and coddling by strangers are this aspiring Wonder Woman’s Achilles’ heels. No matter how hard I work at being the best version of myself, some days I’m all heel.

When I saw Wonder Woman in the theater last week I was relieved. I’d started to worry I was one of those insufferable do-gooder types with a chronic heroine complex, the kind who sabotages relationships over trivial, non-permanent victories. The movie was a popcorn baptism that reminded me why I do what I do. With logic that echoes my own, Diana tells her mother she has to save the world.

Hippolyta: “If you choose to leave, you may never return.”

Diana: “Who would I be if I stayed?”

Amen. Unfortunately, I’m not an Amazonian goddess with mad sword-fighting skills. I’m 5’2″ and I need help reaching the granola at Whole Foods. My battle skill is writing, usually done crosslegged on the floor. So, I fiercely protect my naïveté and cultivate selective amnesia. It’s anti-heroic, but I’d be too much of a coward to do the right thing time and again if I recalled how badly it was going to hurt the next day. Ignorance, not bravery, lets me fight for justice.

The other revelation of Wonder Woman was eye-opening. I left the theater high on comicbook adrenaline and newly aware that, despite my own origin story, I have utterly failed to embody the sartorial spirit of “stop messing with women.” It’s possible my efforts to right wrongs have been hampered for decades by my lack of red leather bustier and bullet-deflecting boots. I already talk like a badass but perhaps if I walk like a badass then I’ll finally be a badass? (At the very least, I’d be identifiable on sight to the nearest Steve Trevor-type and we could spend a few torrid nights together before, well…relationships between heroes are complicated. Stuff happens.)

I ordered a gold tiara and wrist cuffs online this week. I plan to carry them in my purse until an opportunity arises to test my theory. Thanks to Wonder Woman, I’m skeptical but optimistic.