Quirky is as Quirky Does

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Do you ever have a day where you ponder something all day just because of one thing a person said to you? Yes, I didn’t do this when I had a job; however, it’s now my occupation to think too much about things I never really thought about before. I’m beginning to think this is the definition of “unemployment” in the dictionary.

Did you ever ponder “normal?” In my opinion, it’s not normal to dislike cats. It’s not normal to swim in the Atlantic Ocean on New Year’s Day. And, it’s certainly not normal to loathe pink! (Remember, I prefaced that with “in my opinion.”)

I was thinking about some of the things I do that might not be “normal.” When I find a penny or a whisker, I keep it. I then put it in my whisker-penny box. Iz asked me recently why I saved whiskers. I quite simply said, “I think they’re lucky, too.”

I also have a problem with the number 13. If I ever write the number 13 in my checkbook, type it in an email, or jot it down as an answer on Iz’s math homework paper (on those night’s I have no patience for homework and expedite bedtime), I need to write another number right after it. I think that’s superstitious though not “abnormal.”

I dislike and grumbled intensely under my breath when I find balled-up socks in the laundry. I do all the laundry, and that’s really my only rule. I have given mini-tutorials on how to unball a sock, and I’m probably so good at it, it might make a good spot on Sesame Street. Ah, if only men watched Sesame Street!

A few times, I have even purposely washed a load of laundry with 5 pairs of balled up socks. Nathan then says, “What’s up with my socks?” He then promises to unball them, but by the next load of laundry, he’s already forgotten. There’s nothing worse than unballing a stinky, dirty, sweaty sock, but like Monty's barking, it seems to be something I have to live with!

I never usually call my cats or kids by their given names. Well, after Nathan turned 12, “Bear” and “Doodles” went out the window along with him admitting to anyone that I was his “real” mother! Fortunately, Iz is a kindred spirit in that department.

I have several different nicknames for Iz. I only ever call her Isabelle when I verbally punctuate the sentence directed toward her with “Period.” Depending on my mood or the moment, I refer to her as SqueakyCheeseLouise, Stinky, BiddestB, IddyB, Squeaker, and, most recently, Princess Pukamunga or Pukamunga for short.

I told her it was her Native American name. Unfortunately, she’s too smart for me, because she said, “Mommy, I’m not Native American. I’m Lebanese, Irish, Polish, German, and English.” Well, with all that ancestry, why not just throw in Native American for good measure, Iz?

I don’t like bright lights either. Well, I only like them when they’re in the big city, New York City to be exact. And, in conjunction with the low lights, I am vehement about turning lights off when they don’t need to be on. I think I have PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) from the 70s energy crisis; my Dad would make me climb two flights of stairs to turn out the hall light if I left it on!

Finally for the last year, I feel that some days, I’m living my life like a little old retired lady, and I didn’t even renew my membership in the Groton Woman’s Club last year! My Summer was spent biking four or five hours each day with no care in the world, as if my unemployment checks were really Social Security checks. Of course, as you know, everyone I biked with was over 60 years of age, which only enabled me to complain about my aches and pains, go from three to 10 cats, and ask for the senior citizen discount at the movies.

So, I asked myself today, am I normal? Is anyone really normal? What is “normal?” I did what any person does when they are pondering a deep and meaningful life question; I asked Nathan.

Nathan said, “Well…” and he stopped mid-sentence to ponder and began to rub his thumb and index finger against his chin. (I didn’t know if that aided his thinking process or if he just liked feeling the little clump of blonde whiskers on his chin.) Then he then said, “Hmmm. Good question.”

I said again, “Is anyone really normal, Nathan?” He said, “Well, I think this is a philosophical question. It’s what “normal” means to you and the environment you live in. Whoa, perhaps he should bin the Marine Biology and be a Philosophy major; I always knew my son was brilliant even if he thought I was an evil backseat driver like yesterday.

I remembered back to the Summer when I was riding on the rail trail one afternoon with Bill. I think we had just ventured off from Bob, Jeff, and Jim after riding, a term one of my friends coined, a “bike-a-marathon” with them. Bill and I were discussing our fellow riders; err, it was their “personalities” to be exact.

Bob, among other things, always had to touch the post at the end of the trail; and, if he rode 48 miles instead of his intended 50, he’d ride around the parking lot until his odometer was plus two miles. Jim didn’t use email; if and when you got a response from Jim, you knew you weren’t really “talking” to Jim. His wife wrote his emails for him. And, Jeff, a great rider, who could even be greater with a good bike, wouldn’t spend more than $200 on one, even though it appeared he was not strapped for cash.

On the bike ride back, Bill and I agreed that they were quirky. We decided that we were a quirky bunch. I remember thinking about all the quirks and then saying to Bill, “Well, I think you’re pretty normal though.”

Today, Bill picked me up to go visit the bridge. It was colder than usual and a pretty gray day. As usual, when I climbed into Bill’s truck, my Dunkin’ Donuts coffee was there waiting for me in the cup holder; hot and fresh, the benevolent beverage inside was always a good substitute for the missing sunshine outside.

We traveled to the bridge. The crane was gone; and according to Bill’s source, a person from the Mass Department of Highways, a small crane was coming, because they only needed the big crane for the heavier pieces. Other than that bit of information, there was a little banging going on but nothing much else.

I snapped a picture of the bridge. I told Bill that I wanted to send it to one of my friends, because I told him that bridge, not the kind that involves a deck of cards, is what we little old retired people do. Bill laughed and said, "Well, I don't think it is for you, but for me it is a sad reality!"

Unlike our last visit to the bridge, I could hear the sound of the river. It was even louder than the bit of banging going on over at the bridge. I looked over the side of the temporary bridge.

There were no bare spots in the river bed now. The rain and melted snow ran furiously downstream and made a lovely rushing sound against the stone footings of the bridge. Like the sound of the ocean, I could have listened to it all day.

When we finally arrived back at my house, I climbed out of Bill’s truck. As I did, he smiled and said, “You said something that bothered me once.” I was thinking, “Oh, jeez. What did I say? Wait a second. He’s smiling. It can’t be that bad!” He said, “Well, you said I was normal and not quirky.”

I started laughing. It had bothered Bill all those months ago, though I’m sure he wasn’t losing sleep over it, when I said I thought he was “normal.” I thought for a few seconds, and then I said, “You are quirky, too!”

Who bikes 25 miles in November when it's 40 degrees? Who climbs Mount Monadnock in sneakers? And, who goes out of their way to see, like they’re watching “Avatar,” a covered bridge being built when it’s the middle of Winter? You’re right, Bill. It’s only us little old retired and very quirky people. ♥