Today I got told I was weird. ‘Well no, not really. Well maybe a little. Yeah you’re a psycho.’
I’m okay with that. I even asked the question. It wasn’t an unexpected answer.
Maybe a little more unexpectedly, I also got told I was a “good lookin’ chick with a great body and a pretty face”. Pfft. Apparently I also have a “pretty fucked up sense of humour and wit, which are also great qualities”.
So I’m a psychotic weirdo, who’s not bad looking, and funny as fuck. Hhhmmm okay. I’ve been called worse on all counts. But what all that did make me do, was think about the way we see ourselves, and the way others see us. Not what we look like, but who we are. How we ‘view’ ourselves.
It’s bleedingly obvious that many people go through their lives trying to be what is expected of them. Who they ‘should’ be and contorting how they were made, to fit the mould of ‘perfection’. They can’t handle being the odd one out, the black sheep, the blue in a room full of beige. But how does that make them feel about themselves, if they are constantly trying to live up to a role? Do they ever feel like they achieve the goals set by everyone else?
Personally, I have always felt like the black sheep. I have never been ashamed of the fact that I don’t fit the ‘normal’ stereotypes, often embracing the differences I seem to have from others in my age/size/shape/mental level brackets. I’ve often said that I don’t know how ‘this age’ is supposed to feel, so how do I know if I should feel old? How do I know how I ‘should’ feel at all??
We are told by media what we should wear, what skin care to use, how to act on dates, how to please a man or woman, what movies are great, which music to listen to and who we should vote for. We are shown how to cook, clean and decorate our homes with the new season styles and fashions, and how to be the perfect little home bodies. So people forego what they want, like or love in order to fit the part.
We are never told to think outside the box, match pink with orange, that it’s fine to love anyone regardless of gender or size, or to have a wardrobe consisting mainly of black, dark black, pale black and aggressive grey.
We are never told that some things don’t go out of style, just because they have gone out of fashion. We are never told that we should do whatever we fucking want, because in the end…that’s all that really matters!
So having odd conversations with my friends that start with ‘Hey Wench’, replied to with ‘Hey Ho’ put a smile on my face. Telling them, with such political incorrect-ness, they should be riding the special bus, or to piss off, doesn’t raise their eyebrows when it comes from me. Discussing everything from sex to facial scrub, cooking tips to dog fostering and the size of one’s arse, are all normal topics. Apparently I’m that friend. The one you don’t put on speaker phone (at least while the kids are in the car). I was also told that there is ‘nothing usual about me’..I kinda like that. Not just being ‘usual’.
And further than all of that, are the people that believe they are only here for the benefit of others. This is not such a bad thing…if you do it while concurrently being yourself. If you lose yourself to the idea that you are here for others, then who do you become? Being an adult sucks on most days for many reasons…and I believe that the biggest one is that we let ourselves give in to the idea, that in becoming responsible and ‘adult-like’ (another conformity) we must sacrifice. Sacrifice being silly, having fun, doing irresponsible stupid shit occasionally, staying up waaay too late, being spontaneous, being light-hearted, and remembering what it is and always has been, that makes us laugh and smile at heart.
Most of you by this point, would have probably looked at the title of the post and wondered what the hell Madonna has to do with any of this. Well here it is. When I was 12 years old, my bestie Michelle and I used to dress up like Madonna and dance around her lounge-room to Rage until the wee hours of a Saturday morning. She mixed lace with leather and studs, and made it all look amazing. She had hair that could survive a wind tunnel and make-up that could put a raccoon to shame. She was unique and sexy and could sing like we all wanted to be able to. Our hairbrushes would magically become microphones and we were ON that stage. George Michael came to join us a bit later and then Kylie too.
We were the bomb. Everyone wanted to be us. And every now and then…I still do. Not Madonna, but I want to be that girl dancing around the lounge, laughing and singing and almost breaking ankles jumping on furniture (I won’t tell you that some days I am). I want to not have to watch what I say, for whose delicate nature it may offend. I want to be inappropriate and not be ashamed of who I am for any reason.
But not cartwheel. I never want to cartwheel again.
I can handle all the other adult responsibilities…the bills, the work, the caring for others, but not at the cost of my inner child.
So, I shall continue to be stubborn and persistent, and loud and annoying. I will always ask questions about the things I don’t know the answers to. I will be inappropriate and sometimes childish and silly. I will dance like nobody is watching (when nobody is) and laugh whenever I can. I will love passionately and with my whole damn heart. I will have those awkward and honest conversations and cry when I need to…and I will Madonna.
Who were you kids…before the world told you who to be?