My mother-in-law has been visiting for the past two and a half weeks for the holidays. As she’s made herself at home – which I hope any guest would do – and we do the dance of merging lifestyles, I’ve started to realize that I may be a little….weird. You go through life a certain way, and it’s your normal. But tell someone that you alphabetize your bookshelves that you have a thing for Weird Al, and suddenly you’re the village outcast.
Everyone’s got a little weird in them, and now that I’ve listed them, they don’t really seem all that different to me. But I get enough “You are so weird!” from my husband that I’m feeling that maybe I’m walking to the beat of a different drum.
For starters, I alphabetize my bookshelves. How else am I supposed to find that book that I read three years ago that I just know my neighbor will love? Look, color coordinated libraries are aesthetically pleasing and all, but no one’s actually reading those books.
I’m not crazy about massages. Let me clarify. I don’t seek out massages. The last full body massage I got was when I was suffering from an aching back that could only come from constant holding and rocking of two 4-month-olds. Did it feel good? Yes. Did I want her to keep massaging my scalp for another hour or so? Yes. Am I keen on strangers touching me? Not at all. Would it be creepy to ooh and aah when she hit the right spots? Possibly. Was I unsure whether or not I was supposed to leave my underwear on? Totally. My awkwardness and I are best left out of the massage parlors.
I’m OCD about sorting the laundry. Certain items only get washed with certain items, a habit I developed when I had a limited wardrobe of nice work clothing that I needed to keep in tip top condition. Whites with whites, blacks/navies with blacks/navies, sheets with sheets. Jeans and towels NEVER go in with regular clothing, since they can cause unnecessary wear and tear. Hang dry anything that you don’t want to fade, pill, or shrink. These are the laws of Leigh Ann’s laundry room. I realize a lot of people do this already, but not everyone, and when my MIL visits, it makes me seem SUPER controlling. Unfortunately, that’s about where the laundry OCD ends. *gives major side-eye to basket full of unfolded clothes*
I thought Grease was meh. I didn’t even see the musical until I was in college, when a coworker fainted dead away when she learned I’d never experienced it. She brought me her own personal VHS copy, and I was…underwhelmed. It just didn’t live up to the hype. I’ve also never been a huge John Travolta fan. That chin divot freaks me out.
I speak in This American Life episodes. I’ve listened to so many podcasts in such a short amount of time, I can find an opportunity in just about any conversation to insert a story I heard on TAL. Immigration issues? I’ve got a story for that. Geneology and skeletons in the family closet? I’ve got one for that too. Sleepwalking? Yup.
I don’t really watch TV. This is becoming more and more of a thing, but Christian and I were the true cable-free pioneers of the 21st century. Now only watching from Netflix or Amazon or Raffi or something is commonplace, even cool. But we gave it up years ago when we realized that even our favorite shows were piling up on our DVR, and we had neither the time nor the desire to watch them. And my parents still never fail to ask if I’m watching “that show” or if I’ve seen “that commercial.”
I don’t touch seafood. Well, very, very, very rarely. If it’s deep fried and covered in sauce, then I may be able to overlook the rancid smell or the unpleasant texture.
I need to detox after intense social engagements. I’m not talking intense conversation, but more like constant talking and mmmhmmm…. and oh really….. and WOW CAN WE STOP FUCKING TALKING PLEASE THANK YOU. Sometimes – okay, often – okay, usually in the car with three loud children and an introvert-oblivious husband – I fantasize that a glass tube would plop around me and shut me off from everyone. In the car on the way home after one such engagement, I had a mini-come-to-Jesus moment where I explained that I just needed no one to talk to me for about 5-7 minutes. Preferably the rest of the afternoon.
Social engagements also = long days home with kids.
I prefer Martin Freeman over Benedict Cumberbatch. But I’ll take Detective Inspector Lestrade over both.
I’m middle-brained. It’s usually assumed that I’m right-brained, since I’m left-handed and have spent the better part of my life in creative pursuits. But I have enough decent abilities in logical subjects to balance out both sides. All that really means is that I am usually plagued with indecisiveness and have a hell of a time choosing between my gut instincts and my logical brain. I’ve and near-panic attacks in front of the paint chips at Home Depot.
What’s your weirdness? Let your freak flag fly!