Accepting That I’m a Little Weird
By Steven Anderson Law
For so many years I’ve been told something is wrong with me. It all started with my picky eating habits, then it graduated to my general, day-to-day living habits. It makes me hard to live with, I guess, and sometimes I wish I was different. But I am what I am — just a little weird.
I think one of the neatest inventions for my needs are the plastic dinner plates with dividers on them. That way the corn stays in its own little place, as does the mashed potatoes, the ham and the dessert dish.
If it all was meant to run together then it should be put in one big bowl, with maybe two or three stirs so that a scoop would get a little of each. Kind of like Neapolitan ice cream.
To me, mashed potatoes are supposed to be enjoyed as mashed potatoes, not mashed potatoes with corn and honey glazed ham juices pooling around them. One of my elders used to tell me that it all gets mixed up on the inside anyway. My reply was, “True, but my stomach doesn’t have taste buds.” Bear with me, I get worse.
My mom was one of the first to instill in me the proper method of matching clothes. The dos and don’ts, such as not to wear plaid with plaid, or not to mix colors that clash.
I suppose it was no accident that I spent eight years in the men’s clothing business. I used to help men and their wives pick out new outfits — everything from suits and ties, jeans and sweaters, to bib overalls and western shirts. Yes, even bib overalls need proper coordination.
There was a guy that worked at my hometown men’s store that taught me all about matching colors. For the job it was good training, but for my general persona, I think it only accented the weirdness.
To this day I am bothered to see people wearing things that don’t match. And when I see a pair of shoes, a shirt, or some garment that I like, I won’t buy it unless it matches something that I’ve already got. Otherwise, I have to purchase more to go with it.
The worst thing I was ever taught is that shoes should match a belt. Talk about petty silliness — who really cares whether one’s shoes and belt are the same color? Well, when folks are trained to notice things like this, the weirdness never ends.
One year I got a pair of Justin Roper cowboy boots as a Christmas gift. I still have them, and they are a favorite pair of boots. Problem is, these boots are a unique color. The Justin company called the color “whiskey.” So there I was with these new, amberish, orangish, brownish colored boots, but I couldn’t wear them immediately because I didn’t have a belt that matched. I do like wearing western shirts untucked, where a belt doesn’t
matter, but the whiskey boots are dress boots and momma wouldn’t approve.
After searching several department stores I found a belt that was very close to the color of the boots. Even though it wasn’t a western belt, it would suffice for the boots and jeans kind of guy that I am. And there’s never a moment that I wear those boots without that belt, or vice versa.
Another habit from the clothing biz is my meticulous ways of folding and storing my clothes. All my garments are folded similarly to how they would be folded and shelved in a retail store.
I’ve known a lot of mothers who tried to battle the sock-missing-its-mate dilemma by stuffing one inside the other and folding the top over. There’s a myth that this technique wears out the elastic in the sock, which is why my mother never did it that way. But the reason I don’t do it is because it causes a sock pile instead of neat little stacks.
Pathetic, eh? At least I don’t save those mini plastic hangers from the sock retailer and hang my socks on a little peg in the closet. Though it’s a neat concept, it’s a little too weird for me. (No offense to those who do that. Take it from this weird-o, I understand and respect your finickiness.) There are other things I do that fall in line with what one might consider weird, and I think the next example tops them all.
For the few years that I’ve had a home office, I’ve been very particular about how it’s arranged. I don’t know why, but for some reason if the desk doesn’t feel like it’s in the right spot, I can’t concentrate.
I’m acquainted with a writer who writes paperback novels, all of which are created in a plush recliner. She has a laptop computer and she reclines back all the way to where her feet are above the plane of her head, and the laptop rests on her belly. This is where she finds her comfort and ability to concentrate better. Any other way and she feels she doesn’t achieve her highest potential.
Another writer friend has an old travel camper with a blown motor. He has it parked in the woods, with an electrical drop cord for his computer, and a propane tank for the heater. It’s where he “holes up,” as he calls it. He’ll sit in there for days, windows covered, with the only light coming from his computer screen. This is how he zones in to the imaginary world of his stories.
Before I arranged my home office, I stood in the empty room and turned and stared at each wall. After a moment of absorbing the creative vibes, I knew where the desk would need to be. It may have something to do with the windows, the light, the magnetic field, or the cosmos — whichever, I can’t be sure. Some may say that it’s more likely a brain malfunction.
My old conservative cowboy grandfather would have certainly agreed with the latter theory, but he was a man who saw the world as either one way or another — all black and white, no shades of gray. He would have never understood, and didn’t want to.
I know such things make me hard to live with, but I really don’t know any other way to be. It’s a natural persona, as much as it is a learned behavior, and sometimes I have a hard enough time dealing with it myself.
I’m presently in the planning stages of building a cabin in the timber of my property where I intend to have a writing retreat. It’d be hard enough for a guy like me to pick a comfortable spot for the cabin if it were in an acre of trees, let alone 35 acres.
I keep wondering, should I put the cabin near the house, in a more open area? Or should it be more hidden, like in a grove of cedars? Maybe I should build it near the pond, where I can see the wildlife out a window. I suppose I’ll just have to walk around the property until the right spot strikes me.
But the weirdness doesn’t stop there. Once the cabin is built, I have to decide what the room should look like, and which way the desk should face. And do I go oak or rough cut cedar? I sure don’t want to mess up those creative vibes.
Such decisions. But I am certain of one thing; regardless of what kind of interior design I choose for the cabin, it will all coordinate just fine with whiskey colored boots.
© 2004 Steven Anderson