I’ve always been a little odd. At four, I was the little girl with the “you could start a fire with my thick-a** glass” glasses, constantly scribbling words on my pad of paper. My mom wondered what I was writing. I could barely read. At nine, when other kids were jumping off swing sets into injury-producing landings, I was in the living room with the adults, trying to be a part of their convos. I was shooed away. Told that I needed to stay out of “grown folks business.” I wasn’t nosey. I just liked conversation.
Today, at ____, (sorry, I’m an actress and I shall never reveal my age), you won’t find me at a club on a Friday night. Instead, I you’ll find me reading an essay about womanist theory. And on Saturday night, you won’t find me at the movie theatre checking out the latest blockbuster hit or odiously unnecessary sequel. (Although you may find me watching a potentially controversial or noteworthy film during a discounted Saturday matinée, pen and paper in hand, scribbling notes about the flick that I can share in my blog later.) My Saturday nights are somewhat sacred. I try not to go out, but if I do—I try to be home by a reasonable hour, so as not to tire myself to the point that I produce snickers from little kids who find my nodding head in church the source of all things point-worthy.
Sometimes. (And only some times.) Sometimes I think about how much “fun” I could be having if I was all dolled up, either out with my girls or out with some dude tryin’ to get at me…
But then I realize how much I’d miss the page. How much I’d miss the moments of clarity found while sitting all alone. I’d be forfeiting my calling for temporary pleasures.
I’ve made peace with my oddness. I always remind myself that it’s oft associated with greatness.