I’m weird. I know I’m weird. I think differently and process things differently from most people. And, honestly, I kind of like it that way.
weird (wērd) adjective | noun
1. Strange or unusual.
2. Suggesting something supernatural or uncanny.
3. Strange or unusual in a way that makes you wonder who made the rule.
4. The reason waffles for dinner somehow need explaining.
I’ve been this way since I was a kid. I’ve always wondered why people discriminate, why they aren’t more honest and up front, and why everyone seems to be working so hard to fit in. Apparently, I came with a built-in “Wait, why are we doing it that way?” button.
When I was about six to eight, I was in Brownies, the precursor to Girl Scouts. One day, we were all making the same chocolate chip cookies. I asked why we couldn’t each make something different. The troop leader told my mother I might not be a good fit for Brownies. LOL. I was questioning cookie uniformity before I even knew that was a thing. So good bye Girl Scouts!
I also never understood the rules people made up about gender. Pink for girls and blue for boys? What? They’re colors. Boys are supposed to like only girls? What? I never thought that way. People are people. Love is love. We are free to express ourselves as we feel is right if we are brave.
I grew up in a racist home, and I could never understand racism. I remember my high-school graduation party, when my parents wouldn’t let the two black students in my graduating class come. What? WTF? I never understood that logic, and I still don’t. Their skin color didn’t change who they were as a person. I really could not figure it out!
Another weird thing I’ll never understand: Why can you have breakfast for dinner?
Your stomach doesn’t know a quiche from an omelet. It can’t tell a pancake from a dinner roll. It’s just down there doing its job—not checking the clock or enforcing some made-up meal schedule.
More social brainwashing, if you ask me.
Anyway, I might be having waffles for dinner tonight. Take that, society.
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve become more aware of how much social thinking we forcefully absorb without even noticing. And I’m less willing to accept it just because “that’s how people do things.” The political unrest in our country makes me want to say: Come on. Enough. We don’t talk to neighbors or family because of their political views? That seems like a pretty lousy trade for people we care about. I’m not going to do it!
Don’t we all want some of the same things—to be productive, seek peace, serve others, and love and be loved? Different ideas are good. Hate is bad. I wish we could remember that before turning every disagreement into a reason to stop listening.
I was always imagining things, and over time I grew into my weirdness—with pleasure. Now, at 65, I’m still trying to become a little better each day and grow into a more peaceful way of being. It takes time and hard work. There is no fast-forward button, which feels like an oversight.
People sometimes wonder how I can share so much about my life and thoughts publicly. I do it to acknowledge my experiences and stay accountable to them. Some people say I shouldn’t share so much. I disagree. Being open helps me stay aware of what I think and do. And I hope that sharing what I learn might encourage someone else. If I have something useful to pass along, I want to share it.
I’ll keep returning to the mantras in The Four Agreements by Don Miguel Ruiz:
- Be impeccable with your word.
- Don’t take anything personally.
- Don’t make assumptions.
- Always do your best.
I’m an open diary: learning, exploring, succeeding, failing—and, most importantly, trying to become better and share what I discover.
So, am I weird? Yep.
I embrace my weird. And if we’re making cookies,
I reserve the right to make mine differently, and I will eat them for dessert after my waffles and egg dinner.
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