My husband married me because of my shortcomings, not despite them. There’s my penchant for sudden change; spontaneous upsets with scissors and hair dye; a love/hate relationship with the written word that has been festering more than half my lifetime; my crooked teeth; and when I’m really, really tired, a ravaging hysteria of laughter so intense I get stomach cramps. Still, we’re weirdos in love.
I’ve spent an entire lifetime discovering how strange the people of the world think I am and how, secretly, many of them delight in the off-beat.
It’s nothing to me. I mean, when you’re a kid and do and say kid things and your sister’s mantra is, “You’re weird,” well, what can you say? I’m creatively driven.
My big brother, the one who’s been riding Harleys my entire life and is tattooed up and down, has scoffed at my hair and clothes more times than I can count. “You’ve always been the black sheep,” says he.
I smile. Family.
I was insecure, oh, so insecure. “You’re weird”, the other kids always said. But they hung around.
Later on, in high school, when they loaded up the insult cannon with the word “Freak” it bounded right back at them, splattering a little pride across their Esprit. Freak was a compliment, an homage to beloved Ralph Waldo Emerson who gave us permission not only to love, but to be art.