Weird

I have an objectively odd collection of interests.

Photography. Geocaching. Ham radio. Raspberry Pis. A server in a minivan because apparently passengers cannot be expected to survive without local network infrastructure. Dad jokes. Road trips. Finding hidden Tupperware using satellites. And my size doesn’t help me blend in to the background.

I had the pleasure of spending the weekend with three of my high school friends, and a spouse that rivals any sci fi nerd I’ve known. We reminisced, played some devious games of cards against humanity, and discussed how different we felt in high school, and the paradox of how it actually turned out. This was some ground breaking discussion here.

And I helped make a salad.

Weird has always been my go to. I was ostracized as a child, so I had plenty of time to figure out that I wasn’t particularly good at fitting in. I was tall, awkward, interested in things other kids weren’t necessarily interested in, and I had a small circle of friends.

Turns out some of those friends stick around for a really fucking long time.

Sitting around with people I’ve known since high school was interesting because we all remembered feeling different back then. At the time, different felt enormous. When you’re a teenager, there seems to be this mysterious definition of normal that everybody else has somehow been given access to, and you’re standing there wondering if you missed that day of orientation.

The funny part is that the people we thought had everything figured out probably felt weird too.

That’s the paradox we ended up talking about. The things that made us feel different weren’t necessarily the liabilities we thought they were. Some of them became the interesting parts.

The nerds grew up.

We got careers. We had families. We bought houses. We became responsible adults with retirement accounts and opinions about interest rates.

Then we sat around a table playing Cards Against Humanity.

So apparently maturity has limits.

I’ve spent a surprising amount of my life trying to figure out where I fit. Being six foot seven makes physically fitting anywhere challenging enough. Socially, I think I eventually stopped trying so hard.

That has been one of the better parts of getting older.

I don’t particularly care anymore if somebody thinks my hobbies are weird. I have a federal license that allows me to talk to strangers over the radio. I use billions of dollars worth of satellites to find plastic containers hidden in bushes. I own multiple tiny computers because apparently one Raspberry Pi would suggest restraint. I take photographs of horses for a living and can become embarrassingly excited when the light hits one exactly right.

And yes, there is a server in my minivan.

I can explain why.

I’m just not sure the explanation makes it less weird.

I’ve also discovered that weird becomes a lot more fun when you find people whose weird works with yours.

That’s what struck me this weekend. These were people who knew versions of me from long before I became the person I am now. Before the career changes, the photography business, the radios, the Raspberry Pis, fatherhood and everything else that accumulated along the way. We were kids trying to figure out who the hell we were.

Apparently we’re still doing that.

We’re just much more comfortable with the answers.

Maybe that’s the part I misunderstood when I was younger. I thought fitting in meant becoming more like everybody else. It turns out it can also mean finding people around whom you don’t have to.

Those people are rare.

Some of mine have been around since high school.

Others have entered my life much more recently.

And the best ones don’t seem particularly bothered by my weird. Sometimes they bring plenty of their own.

I like that.

At fifty something, I’ve reached the point where being called weird doesn’t feel much like criticism anymore. If anything, normal sounds exhausting. I’d have to get rid of half my hobbies, several computers, most of my jokes and probably the server in the minivan.

I’m not prepared to make those sacrifices.

So yes, I’m weird.

So are the people I love.

Some of them have simply been proving it for several decades longer than others.

And apparently, when enough weird people find each other, somebody makes a salad.