Years ago, thanks to the wackiness of my own family, I learned to embrace my own weirdness. See what I said there? “learned to embrace” – because being weird is supposed to be a bad thing, according to some.
I was curious, though. What is the technical definition? Well, “fantastic” and “bizarre.”
I’ll take fantastic, please.
When did weird become bad? (This is where people who studied anthropology, sociology and psychology back in the day will talk about the need for conformity in order to survive mammoths or something, and now it’s part of conforming to social norms.)
Weird isn’t bad. Weird is just…weird. It’s different. It’s not normal. It’s fantastic and bizarre.
But weird isn’t always weird.
You might think it’s weird to kneel in front of your partner, naked, waiting for permission to come to bed. I don’t.
You might think it’s weird to complete a set of assigned tasks every day just to hear, “Good girl” or “Good boy.” I don’t.
You might think it’s weird to let someone bind you with rope, blindfold you, and then fuck with your head until you believe that you’re being cut with a knife. Not me (even though it’s not my thing).
I used to think plenty of things were weird – in that bizarre way – until I didn’t.
People who walk around naked while making eye contact with strangers? That was just weird…until it wasn’t, until I was one of them.
People who perform acts of BDSM and fetish in front of a crowd were not only weird, but what they did was unthinkable…until I became one of them.
But I also thought I was weird because I read as an escape from reality, I write my innermost thoughts, and I have almost none of the same experiences as people my own age had growing up. Cabbage Patch Kid dolls? Latchkey kid? Parents who let me walk the shopping mall for hours? Nope, that wasn’t my life. My clothes were cheap. My glasses ugly. My manner of speaking much older than my age. My family poor. My parents strict. I was a weirdo…according to my peers.
That was the weirdness I “learned to embrace.”
Years later, as a more mature human, a grown woman, a person with heartbreaks and happiness, I didn’t have to embrace my fetishes and kinks as “weird.” They’re part of me, and while to the casual observer, they may be fantastic or bizarre, they represent my new normal.
What is “weird” is a matter of experience and perception. The more you do the “weird” thing, the less weird is becomes. The more you see a “weird” thing, the more normal it seems.
Am I weird? Probably to someone out there.
Does it matter? Only to other people.
Welcome to Wicked Wednesday where this week’s prompt was “weird.” Nothing sexy came to mind, but as someone who has called herself “weird” since I can remember, it definitely triggered a little something. For the smutty goodness, go check out the rest of this week’s posts.