Every once in awhile I’ll post on Facebook “I’m a weirdo” and it gets about 5 likes in comparison to the 150 likes I get for a check-in at the movie theater with my husband. A few weeks ago, someone sent me a message and asked me why I always identify myself as a weirdo. “You are successful, handsome and you really have your shit together. Why in the world would you want everyone to think you’re a weirdo and what does that even mean?” I thought it was an interesting question so I looked up the definition of weirdo and found this: a person whose dress or behavior seems strange or eccentric. Hmmm…I don’t know. I guess it all started with Janis Joplin.
As I was sitting in front of my computer tonight, waiting for Alex’s family to come over for dinner, I was thinking about how much my mom loved having people over on Sunday nights. She would invite a few people over and we would all sit around the dining room table and eat chili and raw apple muffins or chicken curry with homemade garlic bread. Later, after the other guests would leave, my mom and I would sit in front of the fire and drink coffee while talking about a range of topics from her desire to have Hilary Clinton as president to the best Woody Allen film to random memories of her being a Pi Phi. The night would drift on as we would play Bob Dylan and Neil Young records, smoke cigarettes and the stories would turn funnier until we would both be rolling in laughter. Finally, it would be time for me to go home. She always asked me to stay overnight, but I always refused, desiring to be in my own bed. Now Alex and I live in my mother’s home and I sleep here every night.