I am a bit of a freak. I’m just realizing that my ex-boyfriend, so long ago, was right all along (but this was the only thing he was right about).
I have some peculiar tendencies which I had thought made me original, but in fact they make me just peculiar.
Christmas decorations make me claustrophobic. Even knowing I have boxes stashed away with ribbons and lights and stale gingerbread men missing limbs makes me uneasy. I realized when I swept up the last of the pine needles from the tree that must have been cut in June and took my first full breath of pine-free air that it wasn’t the shopping I abhorred as much as the infringement on my personal space.
When faced with abundances, I turtle. I can’t eat at buffets, and I run screaming out of Sephora and never EVER shop at department stores. I once drank only grapefruit juice during a trip to Vegas with my parents when faced with buffet after buffet. They thought I had an eating disorder until I enthusiastically dug in to my plane food. And need I explain Sephora? Surely everyone feels the same waves of panic when presented with endless walls of makeup, or in fact any display of makeup with more than lip gloss? I’m sweating just thinking about it.
When faced with underground parkades (the Canadian term for parking garage, did you know?), the only question is do we really need to park? Whatever errand I’m running, friend I’m meeting, broadway show we’re going to is immediately in question when I’m behind the wheel and a parkade is involved. They terrify me. No matter how short my car, and how many times I have been there, I am convinced my car will hit the roof. If you’re my friend and I’ve parked in one of these in order to see you, I must really like you. This is the real reason I live in Suburbia: a distinct lack of parkades. If you google ‘parkade syndrome’ you will find a picture of me.
And where to begin with Disneyland? I will only say that everyone should be wary of a place that bills itself as the happiest place on earth; very wary. This is a whole other blog for another day. My children didn’t win the lottery of mothers, needless to say.
I previously thought everyone felt this way about all these issues and continuously lied, but I noticed people taking half a step back from me when I described my joy at taking my tree to the chipper. My friends look at me quizzically when I suggest I just circle the block rather than enter the parkade. I’ve met normal people – adults, no less - who claim to LOVE Disneyland (I immediately think: liars!).
Putting two and two together, maybe I really am a freak, and not just the cool minimalist I prefer to label myself. My oddities are not something I can seek a prescription for, yet if left unchecked could become exaggerated in my old age, leading people to whisper about that strange reclusive cat lady.
Who’s kidding who, if I can’t stand pine needles, imagine cat hair. And they’re already whispering.
Look! Below is a nice little blank form where you can write what makes you
a freak original too. It might work like a confessional, where the instant you write it you will be exonerated from your freakiness. Or it might not, and your friends might start avoiding you, so use at your own risk.