It's taken me 30 years to learn to appreciate myself, respect myself and to just enjoy the gifts and quirks that make me "me". All the good, all the bad, all of the yet-to-be-categorized. As I sit here writing this, I'm still not 100% sure why I feel compelled to start this "all about me" -esque blog series, but nonetheless, I do. Maybe it's because, for the past year or so, I've been traveling at warp speed on a journey of self-awareness and I'm writing it to myself to make sense of things. Or maybe it's because I observe the people around me who have yet to embrace themselves and their wonderfully weird idiosyncrasies, and I want share my stories to make them feel not-so-isolated in their journey. Or maybe a little of both? Who knows. Either way, I'm writing it, so welcome to the first installment of "Tiffany: The Mini-Series".
From the time I was a wee lass, I remember feeling like I was different and that being "different" meant that something was wrong with me. I wasn't acutely aware of exactly what it was that made me different, but I've always known that I didn't think or act or react in similar ways as my family or peers. Although you wouldn't know it by encountering me today, I was a painfully shy child. I preferred being left to my own devices and getting lost in my head rather than being bothered to play with other kids my age. My favorite past time was barricading myself in my bedroom, with my art set and my Beach Boys tapes, and escaping to whatever enchanted land my little noggin could dream up. That may not seem like such unusual behavior for a creative soul, however, the hours I spent alone also made way for other thoughts. For example, I went through a phase where I was OBSESSED and terrified by the thought of growing up, because that meant my grandparents would die. Pretty sure I was around 4 years old at the time. I was also a conspiracy theorist who believed that everyone was constantly judging me and making fun of me. Paranoid, much? On occasion, when I didn't feel like my parents were listening to what I was trying to communicate with them, I'd pack up my favorite stuffed animals in a handkerchief, tie it to the end of a stick (aka: a brindle stick....a la cartoon world and very popular method of moving on with tv hobos) and "run away". Of course, my version of running away was climbing a tree just passed our barn and waiting for someone to miss my pouty little self and forcing them to come find me. This scenario never really worked to my advantage because a.) it was normal for me to disappear, so how were they to know I'd "ran away"? and b.) I was a clumsy kid. I fell out of said tree more that I actually sat in it and no one actually knew where I was to come help my wounded tush back to the house. Ahhh, the innocence of childhood, right?
For most of my elementary school years, I just accepted that I was a weird kid, kept my mouth shut in class and tried to draw as little attention to myself as possible. Although I loved to read and show off my sweet spelling skills, I often got so nervous that I would mispronounce words, be it in front of class or in one-on-one conversations. Much to my chagrin, this typically this led to snickers and snide remarks from the more vocal little brats. I hated being called on to answer questions, getting matched up with a partner who was not one of my friends, and maybe most crippling of all...(GASP!)...gym class. I HATED P.E.!!! I mean, what's to love about being the last picked for a team, or being one the weaklings who, without fail, was annihilated in dodge ball? To this day, it still blows my mind that dodge ball is legal. (Shutters...uuuhhhh). I know it seems as if I'm painting a picture of a kid who was equipped with the social skills of a rock, but my parents did keep me very involved in extracurricular social activities. Thank God for that. I was a little jazz dance-ah, a softball pitcher, a tumbling machine, a failed pianist and a wannabe beauty queen (hey, I'm from the South... we do pageants). Although I didn't always love it, these activities allowed me to get out of my head for a while and, every now and again, figure out that I was more than an incredible speller and horrible orator. Even though I may have never been the fastest, or the best, or the prettiest, or the smartest, I had the desire to become better. And I made it my JOB to get better. At the time, I had no idea what that meant. Perhaps I was just trying to gain acceptance from my peers and my parents and my teachers, but looking back now, I realize it shows that I have always been driven and ambitious. Those things aren't really taught, either you are or you're not. Being a kid weirdo has it's perks, it toughens ya up and and prepares you to enter a world where some of those mean little brats age to be grown up a-holes.
I'll go ahead and flash forward through the awkwardness and growing pains of the teenage years and my 20's, for now. Don't worry, (because I'm sure you're on the edge of your seat to hear all about it) I will revisit in future rambles in this blogosphere. I suppose I started by introducing a teeny glimpse into the mind of the weird introvert kid because it seems like the appropriate vehicle for introducing my evolution into this weird extrovert adult, which will be fodder for my next post. I'll wrap up today's nonsense by saying that I'm finally to a point where I'm able to appreciate and to be thankful for the fact that "normal" really doesn't exist. We are all blessed with strengths and weakness and quirks, and we have the ability to utilize it to our advantage. We are all divinely designed to be different. We are ALL some flavor of odd. That's right...even you! Ahhh!! Accept yourself for it. Accept others for their differences. Embrace it. Love who YOU are and it will make loving others much easier. I know, deep, right? Ta-ta for now!
