In today's crowd-sourcing adventures, I'd like to address my little issue on Friday.
Confession time: I'm a little strange.
Actual first thoughts upon seeing Mackelmore's clip: Oh my god, that's so awesome. Why don't I own footie pjs?
Now, I know what you're thinking. No FluterDale, you're confusing awesome with strange! You can't be strange because you're so hilarious and cool we don't even know what to do with ourselves.
And it's ok, guys: You can think I'm hilarious and cool, but the truth is, it's because I'm a little weird. Like ... went to school in the eighth grade dressed as a Klingon and never paused to question whether that was appropriate weird. (I did eventually figure out that was essentially social suicide. But not until about a decade later. And if I think about it too hard, I still get a little proud of myself.)
Oh yes, yes I did.
My freak flag is big, and probably lime green with miscellaneous clashing polka dots. There's no use in hiding it and from birth, I was blessed with the inability to care.
When you're an eighth grader whose hair looks like it belongs on a Klingon (even when you're not in costume), this is a good thing. When you're one of those ladies who buys a totally cute outfit and puts it on only to resemble a teen vagrant or prosti-tot, it's ... probably best not to care what other people think.
I'm wearing argyle tights, a corduroy skirt, and your grandma's sweater. WHAT OF IT, FRESHMAN ENGLISH DUDE?
The thing is, I was ok with being strange for years and years. It was fun. It didn't bother me, and if it bothered other folks, they probably weren't the types of folks I wanted to spend a lot of time with. I liked poison dart frogs and I called my cat ButterHead. I do impersonations of dead composers and have been known to host Simon and Garfunkel sing-alongs when Simon and Garfunkel are not what's playing in that particular bar at that particular time.
Then something else happened. There was an anvil and a soul and maybe some flesh-eating zombie maggots, and basically, now I'm constantly afraid that people don't like me. It never used to matter. I'm not really sure what the big deal is.
You guys seem like a lively bunch. Some of you might be similarly afflicted. It sounds like you have mostly normal jobs with, what I assume, are completely boring coworkers who wouldn't like my hair, either.
Once you start caring, how do you stop? Teach me.
I'll send you pictures of the eighth grade Klingon? Or, at the least, tell you stories about my weird pets and give you a sassy nickname.
Crowd-sourcing: my self-esteem. Let's have it.