As I sit here, shaking Sweetarts onto my shirt and eating them from the little pocket my cleavage makes in my shirt, I can’t help but think that I will never fit in. Truth is I never have. That probably doesn’t come as a big surprise. I’m known for oversharing about a lot of things and sometimes being way more transparent than most. Time spent with me–the real me, not work me–is usually spent acting much younger and immature than my age. I know the age the calendar says I am but I really don’t know that I’ve ever felt the age that I was.
I found a picture a while back from my freshman year of college and it wasn’t a party picture. Nope. I looked like Martha Stewart found a dress at the Goodwill and fixed her hair fancier than necessary for the occasion. I was getting ready for a banquet at church. I couldn’t help but think about how much of a stick in the mud I used to be. (And, perhaps I still am.) I wanted things to be just right and I wanted my image to be one of style and grace. Even if I looked like I was about to set out a tray of cruditĂ©s and have a lengthy discussion about dog shows. But, I knew I didn’t really fit in with the college crowd my own age. I didn’t get blackout drunk on the weekends or shake my hips at the club. I had a detailed plan for how I thought life would go and I wasn’t going to deviate from that plan. (Well, except for the time that I did partake of some beverages that rendered me unable to walk properly and I told God if I ever got out of that situation, I’d never do it again. And, I didn’t.)
That particular night, I wanted nothing more than to be the cool kid who knew how to hang out and be chill. Instead, I think I was the weirdo who was really more satisfied sitting on the sidelines watching the crowd. I knew that I wasn’t being true to myself that night. I really was more of that square Martha Stewart lookalike than I was a wild party girl. Back then, I thought I was missing out on something even if that something was really just jail. I’m grateful for not fitting in then.
As an adult, I have struggled to fit in. Thick girls have always been taught that we needed to wear black, dark blue, brown, or some other similarly boring color. I conformed to that for way longer than I should have but one day, I woke up and said no more. That also coincided with my college graduation and the year that metallic looking b.right color fabrics were in style. What did I do? I bought what I thought was the prettiest suit and went on every interview wearing the almost psychedelic dark pink abomination. I distinctly remember walking into an interview and one lady’s eyes bugged out of her head. In retrospect, I was ahead of my time – a fashionista without the appropriate audience.
These days, I still wear some obnoxious colors. I embrace them like my own personal trademark. Sure, I wear some dark colors but you will rarely see me on a day when there’s not a splash of color. In a sea of neutrals, I’m the standout. Don’t give me a plain color shirt or a gray pair of pants unless you expect to see me get creative with color. Yet again, I don’t fit into what most girls want these days. Even with thick thighs, I’m meant to stand out. I’ve tried to tame my style down to better fit into what is in style but I feel less like me and more like a cheap copy.
It’s not just the things I wear, it’s my sense of humor too. It’s mostly juvenile and twisted. I recall one time being at lunch with my coworkers years ago. We were all having a good time but someone said something that caused my twisted sense of humor to kick in. I started laughing to myself and everyone was begging me to tell them what I was thinking. I told them that they really didn’t want to know. Wanting to be in on the joke, they kept begging me. Against my better judgment, I shared what I thought was so hilarious. Needless to say, they didn’t find it funny at all and I felt like my sense of humor had a problem.
Something happened when I turned 40. I really started to feel more liberated and comfortable in my own skin. Now that’s not to say that there aren’t days when I feel like ET dressed up in Elliott’s sisters clothes. But, I try to just be true to who I am. If it’s fashionable but not me, I don’t even try to wear it. If I find something funny, I laugh. Is it sometimes crude and offensive? Probably. My music taste is all over the place and I don’t fit into one genre. I might be thuggin’ it out with some old school rap one minute, waving the lighter in the air with a good country song the next minute, and humming along with a gospel tune a few minutes later. I may ride into work in 30 degree weather with the sunroof open blasting AC/DC. Does it look crazy? Probably, but with heated seats and the heat blasting, an open sunroof balances out the temperature to perfection.
I spent so many years trying to fit in to what people expected all the while pushing down what I wanted until it was almost indiscernible. I’m sure some people get really confused with me. I love being a little bit diva and a little bit redneck. I grew up riding the dirt roads of my Daddy’s hunting land and there’s nothing quite like riding through the woods to replenish my serotonin. Yep, all while wearing my makeup like I’m going out on the town. It’s a contradiction but it’s MY contradiction. Perhaps its just the complexity that I don’t have to conform to be true to myself. If fitting in makes you uncomfortable, is it really fitting in?
These days, I’m feeling a little “take it or leave it” when it comes to peoples opinions of me. I don’t have the energy to tailor myself to fit the boxes that others want to put me in. We remember people not for their ability to blend into the scenery but how they stand out in their own unique way. This ability takes courage and won’t always win friends. It will, however, satisfy the soul in a way fitting in never could.
Messpot Diaries 