Letting My Freak Flag Fly

“Stand proud. Your weirdness is a valuable thing. A badge of honor. A point of pride. It sets you apart and helps you find other people who will revel in your presence – and you in theirs.”  – Jessica HagyHow to Be Interesting 

I had a boyfriend once who was always calling me weird. He thought the way I ate pancakes was weird – how I would cut each flapjack into bite-sized pieces before pouring on the syrup to ensure maximum absorption (which is, of course, the only sensible way to eat pancakes). He thought the way I said syrup was weird – seer-up, not surr-up. He thought the way I wanted to be by myself sometimes was weird – the way I would go to the mountains for a weekend by myself and just bask in the quiet.

Needless to say, our relationship was a short one. I may be weird, but I’m not stupid.

I met my husband shortly after I broke up with this gent, and god love him, he takes me the way I am. He may chuckle over the fact I laugh at my own very dumb jokes, and he may roll his eyes when I dance (think Elaine from Seinfeld, only with more air-humping), but all signs of my innate weirdness are met with affection from him, not disdain.

Ryan’s unconditional acceptance of the idiosyncrasies that form the whole of who I am has made it easier for me to accept them as well. My weird eyebrow mole, my penchant for British television programming, my addiction to a very specific type of high fantasy novels – these, and a million other things about me, are the things that make me me.

In the early part of my 20s, I did what I could to hide who I am. It took meeting someone who loves all of me – not the me I packaged and presented to the world – to make me realize that going through life as a ghost of myself is no way to live.

And because I’ve allowed myself to be myself – by celebrating my weirdness, by letting my freak flag fly – I’ve found other people who share my view of the world, who love British telly and who don’t get Nicki Minaj and who like cheese pizzas just fine, thank you very much.

Weird people who seem to revel in my presence, big old warts and all.

(Not literal warts. That would be weird.)

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