I’m weird. I know. People occasionally tell me.
But what’s weirder than being told you’re weird? How about being told you’re normal? That would be weird.
If someone tells me I’m normal that would be abnormal. I wouldn’t take that as a compliment like I do being told I’m weird.
Occasionally, my son-in-law , Bernardino, calls me old-fashioned. A compliment, even in my early forties.
Recently, my sister Nana tried to pull a white hair from my head. I was offended and snapped, “I earned that and you’re not going to take it away from me!”
Before this column continues, let’s define “weird.” Merriam-Webster online says: “Strange … extraordinary character … fantastic.” I’ll go with number three.
To many kids today, weird is defined as not being like me and not liking what I like, like, umh, “Jersey Shore.” If that’s the new normal, I’d rather be weird.
Weird, to some, is enjoying quiet time and doing insane things like reading when it’s not even 15-minute mandatory reading Wednesday at school.
Weird is spending quality time at 4:30 a.m. with my blue-eyed grandson who is wide awake at that time and driving his sleep-deprived mommy crazy. Giovanni and I have some of our best grandma-grandson time in the pre-dawn hours. Isn’t that normal?