Weirdness is okay. (she says, while lighting hitting one of those meditative little brass symbols.) Say it with me folks: weirdness is okay. Weirdness IS normal. It was a long, tough road for me personally however, to reach this level of over-sharing weirdness comfort to get to the high level fuckery I am at now. When I was a little girl–a teen–a young adult, being weird was often viewed as very not okay. In fact, one of my good friends online, Lauren used to have a phrase that I think summed up how many people reacted to my weirdness when I was younger:
Generally the only people who sort of embraced my weirdness was…well. People just as weird as I was back then. And they were often shunned as well as ostracized for being (I’m making giant air quotes right now) “different,” too. And then I grew up. Listen–if you’re one of those young hip happening folks in their 20’s or younger, right now you’re probably getting a lot of this advice from wizened old prunes like myself: don’t worry about it now, some things won’t matter / get better when you are older. And isn’t that shit just annoying? Because if it’s this bad now (you might be thinking) it’s just going to get even worse as you get older! These people have no idea about your life! They haven’t a clue! ….And, that’s probably true. But I am here to tell you that I, too, was young once. I believed the exact same thing. I believed that I would always worry about what people thought of me and always be judged and always have this odd pressure as well as anxiety to keep certain aspects of myself to myself–because gosh diddily darn it, I was just too weird and I’d find nobody out there ever never that would understand my level of weirdness.
And that was bullshit.
(Side note: I’m not talking axe-murdery-weird here. If you happen to be an axe murderer reading this, I am sorry, there’s a line, you’ve crossed it. Go get help. Anyway, let’s continue–)
I am now 38 years old (Guys, I’ll be 39 by July 2nd, ’17, what the fuck happened?) and I can say for a certainty that my weirdness has saved me. In a way. My oddities have kept me going when depression, life, and other factors would have laid me out. My weirdness found me a fellow weirdness to get married to and spend the rest of my life with. My weirdness helped me find such an amazing crowd of real life friends that I don’t even know what to do with them all. So yes: if you–yes–you–are sitting there right now miserable in your strangeness and thinking it won’t get better I am telling you, it will. You get older. Your brain gets “fuck this shit, let’s just be weird”-ier and some of that awfulness of your earlier year will fade. (Also other side note: I’m not joking when I say sometimes, really good medication as well as finding the right ones when you get older help, too!
So where the hell is that 10 things list? And why the hell did it take you so long to get here? I am so glad you asked:
- At least once a day, sometimes four or five times, I like to take the beginning to the “Prince Ali” song from Aladdin ( “Make way! For Ali! “) and change to lyrics and belt out: “WELLLCOME, TO PEEEE!” before going to the bathroom. You’re welcome.
- I have one cat, Crinkles, with a very distinctive white fur pattern on his face. My husband and I affectionately, and often, call him Penis-Face.
- I miss hear and occasionally read things all messed up. I once, quizzically asked my husband, after reading a restaurant’s sign… what “Alocaneat” pasta was. To which he stared at me, dying a little bit inside, and asked: “Do you mean ALL YOU CAN EAT pasta?”
- One time I made my tea too hot, but didn’t realize it until I took a sip. And instead of being smart, I panicked, spit the tea out on my hand, which then burned my hand, in which I panicked further, and shook my hand free of the burning hot water. Which landed on my boobs.
- There was an annoying trend years ago with an instrument called vuvuzela. I was slightly tipsy and swimming at the pool in our old apartment (before we got this house.) I have no idea what lead me up to this–but here’s how it broke down: I tried sauntering over toward my husband, leering in a very exaggerated fashion. I then struck a sexy pose (as sexy as one can be in a pool, half-tilted I suppose) leaned in, breathily whispered: “Wanna tug on my Venezuela.” One of these things were not the other. My husband almost died laughing.
- Despite the danger, I will pick up my cats, turn them over and shove my entire face into their bellies and then proceed to huff, aka: inhale their fur. The smell of healthy, warm, clean cats is the glue to my happiness and universe.
- Also I adore snorting my parrots. They just have this wonderful, seedy, sunshine smell!
- I used to suffer from way worse insomnia when younger. 2-4 days without sleep. One time, after a particularly awesome bender, my husband was rolling out of bed just as I was trying to put pajamas on after a shower. Damp legs + soft pajama bottoms = foot got caught and I fell. He asked if I was ok, and, I giggled the entire way standing back up. ….Because I had put my pajama shirt over my head and asked him with the worst Russian accent: “Would you like some bread?”
- My husband once kept a microsoft spreadsheet of the Shit I would Say, with dates and times. We lost it when one of our shared drives stopped working. I am sad about it to this day. LUCKY FOR YOU I kept this blog around and am posting to it again, eh?? So now you get to read all about it. Heh heh heh.
- My husband can pronounce Komitet gosudarstvennoy bezopasnosti. One night, as we were both loopy tired, and in bed, we were discussing weird words–when he fired those at me randomly. I tried pronouncing it back. And I said: “ What the fuck is a Pepto-bismal-pez-dispenser-nazi?”
As you can see, nothing about me or my life is “normal,” anymore. It’s no fun being normal anyway–I mean, sure, some people are great at it. Go them. But not me. And if you’re in the process of finding yourself, I say to you: