For much of my life I have been known as the weird girl. At times I have hated this, particularly in junior high. Who knew it was weird to wear your father's 1970s farm clothes to school? Or that it was weird to hang out with your piano teacher and her cat? I would spend many hours wishing that people could see my inner charms, ha ha. Doesn't everyone do that in junior high?
Other times I reveled in it, particularly in high school. Who knew it was weird to wear your father's 1970s farm clothes to school!?! Or that it was weird to strap a lawn flamingo on your back pack!?! I loved being different and put a great deal of effort into it. I loved when the popular girls would secretly tell me that they loved my style or envied my sense of freedom. Which of course didn't exist, I was in high school for heaven's sake.
Any way that you slice it I have always felt just a bit different. As I have grown into an adult I have given it much less thought. I generally don't care what is or isn't weird. I think most people conclude that there is really no normal. I hadn't given it much thought, that is, until my uncle came for a visit a couple of weeks ago. He looked around the house, his eye pausing on our framed picture of Susan the Elder and passing over artwork and the things that make our home ours. He was kind, of course, but it was clear that he thinks I'm a bit odd. That's fine with me, but I began to wonder, once again, just what it is that makes me weird or not weird?
I asked Eric about it and he almost laughingly agreed that I am indeed weird. Well, who can say? Are you weird? What makes you weird?
PSI am happy to let my freak flag fly!