It has come to my attention – quite starkly – that I may never achieve normality.
Let’s be real. It’s never been a huge priority in my life to be normal, boring, and mundane. But I frequently operate under the assumption that this is due to my own choice. I enjoy crazy people. I enjoy acting crazy. So it follows, logically, that I would not refrain from doing something a little crazy once in a while, yes?
What I’m starting to realize is that the crazy behavior in my life may not, in fact, be my own choice. There’s some pretty solid evidence that it’s hereditary.
Take Wednesday night, for instance. While studying in my room, I detected a horrifying smell of acrid smoke just outside my bedroom window. Opening the window, I found an enormous gray cloud, and ran outside to find out whatever it was that was burning in the backyard fire pit.
It was my brother’s underwear. Andrew was standing triumphantly next to the fire pit (wearing pants, thankfully,) holding a smoldering pair of “tighty whities” with his fingertips.
Or take Thursday evening, for example. I was on the phone with a Teach for America representative, trying to make a good first impression, when I heard two bloodcurdling screams from the kitchen, followed by shuffling and assorted sounds of mayhem. I ignored them. (Strike one.) My mother slowly opened my bedroom door and revealed two electric beaters caught in her hair and a face covered in fruit dip. I did not get off the phone (strike two,) but walked over to my bookcase, picked up the camera, and took a picture (strike three, and I’m a horrible daughter.) It was only later, as we examined the new bald spot in my mother’s hairline, that it suddenly occurred to me: I don’t think this kind of thing happens to most people.
So I’m left to wonder to myself: do others simply hide their “skeletons in the closet” better than we do, or are we just really, really weird? ◊