I like to describe myself as “an eccentric genius.” People always laugh, because they think I’m joking. I always laugh, because they think I’m joking.
An astrologer once titled a reading for me, “If she’s not crazy, there’s no end to the good she can do you!” I laughed for a solid week, because I’d never heard myself described better.
I couldn’t fit in if I tried; not authentically, anyway. I was raised specifically to be an outsider. I can blend in well enough to function, sure. But it’s not my natural state of being.
Honestly, that crap gets old; by the time you get to be my age, you just want to be, y’kno? Or at least, I do. It does have a price, though. You have to tune out other people’s opinions.
So what if I thank the spent blooms for the joy and beauty they shared when I pull them off my flowers? I’m not asking you to do it. I’m not hurting anybody. It makes me happy. I feel less guilty for plucking them off, and I do appreciate their service. I scatter them on the sidewalk, intending them to provide luck and protection to whomever crosses their paths. You may think it’s nuts, but every time I send out a positive intention, it feels good. I am adding to the sum total of goodwill in the world.
Ok. I get the point. But I don’t do this aloud if I see anybody outside, man. I’m semi-aware, even though I have a number of…eccentricities.
I see two options: I can stop dying my hair weird colors, stop talking to my flowers, stop doing my nails blue, stop dressing like a hippie, stop talking about astrology and Tarot and chakras, give glitter a rest-in-peace edict—by and large, stop being so damn colorful! I’m way too colorful to be proper for a woman my age. Anybody knows that. Even (Gasp!) me…
Or, I can be known as “The Crazy Cat Lady.” Do what makes sense to me, without bothering with what anybody else would make of it. Do what makes me happiest, so long as it doesn’t hurt anybody else.
Way I figure, it’s a service. Maybe it gives them a little amusement to see what the crazy pink-haired old lady is doing. Or somebody to feel superior to. Maybe they can feel a little more normal by comparison. Who knows? The ones it bothers probably aren’t a good match for my energy anyway.
I’m as kind as I know how to be; I try to add light and love wherever I go, in however humble (or eccentric) the contribution. Everything good I have to share with anybody is enhanced by living as happy as I know how to live.
I guess I’ll change how much “me” I let out roam in the wild if I see a good reason; I have at times before. I try stay balanced and I do what I need to do, because I am a grown-up about what counts. But I’m really hoping I don’t see good reason. It’s a lot more fulfilling being authentically colorful than widely palatable.