A large part of my childhood, the part I most recall, was spent living in a house shaped like an octagon. The house was actually three octagons stacked on top of each other. As if one was not enough. The house represented to me, a palpable example of how un-normal my life was, and by association, how un-normal I most likely was as well.
A friend of mine lived near the corner of Valverde Street and Trujillo Lane in Taos, NM. On the corner sat a two story, territorial home, complete with red-roof and dormer windows, that led into what I was sure was a bedroom with a matching sheet set, duvet cover and shams. I drove by this house as much as possible. I found it impossible that a person could stare out of dormer windows everyday and have divorced parents and all the complexities that come with that.
My insistence on living in a square shaped house carried through to my adulthood. When Aaron flippantly suggested we buy a dome shaped home, I seriously reconsidered our compatibility.
My dad left when I was nine. He had many girlfriends throughout my childhood. All of them, except one, considered me a nettlesome reminder of the 1963 Michigan State Homecoming Queen runner up, my mom, the love my dad never recovered from. Needless to say, they were not warm. I learned early what it felt like to be disliked and envied by other women, for something I had no control over. My dad was the perfect storm for any woman who was attracted to unavailable men. I remember feeling a mixture of pity and embarrassment for them as they tried, relentlessly, to capture his heart. And I always felt sad for my dad because his heart remained beating for my mom. Leaving was his biggest mistake.
My mom was remarried to her first husband, the builder of the three tiered octagon. He was equal parts cruel and magnanimous. Not the ideal choice for a thirteen year old girl, but I learned a lot about my own worth during this time. Either because he was showing it to me, or because he was openly challenging it. I learned to bend and sway but not break.
This is all to say that I now live in a square house. I drive an SUV. I'm married with a child. We have two dogs, a garden in the back, a 401-k, a mortgage, and a rainy day fund. I'm like the epitome of normal. I love my life but it turns out that normal is highly overrated. I like my weirdness. No, I NEED my weirdness. I like knowing that there are things you can't touch, see, smell or hear, but you know are ever present, moving you along, supporting you, cheering for you. I like saying the wrong things at the wrong times sometimes. Why not?! I like knowing that things don't have to be a certain a way. Says who? For what reason? There is magic in the Wierd. It's here to stay.
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