Those peculiarities.


One of the many nicknames my mom bestowed upon me was El Weirdo. And just as the nickname implies, I am somewhat weird at times. I’m not ashamed or embarrassed by that fact because it reminds me of this quote:

Blessed are the weird people–poets, misfits, writers, mystics…painters & troubadours–for they teach us to see the world through different eyes.

My mom of course uses that nickname affectionately. Perhaps the name stems from the times I would speak English using a French accent, with panache and dramatic flair. Maybe it’s because I would sing with a water bottle as a microphone and dance with a broomstick. It could be that I would randomly wear high heels in the middle of the night while I had my PJ’s on. Perhaps it’s because she would catch me talking to myself, laugh, shake her head and walk away while I shouted “I wasn’t talking to myself!” because, technically, I wasn’t; I was talking to imaginary people. And imaginary or not, they’re still people; let’s not discriminate.

In January, when I told my grandmother that I was getting married she was stunned. One of the first things she said was, “But you can’t even cook!” Then she mentioned that when my husband finds out how weird I am he’ll send me back to Cape Town. That made me laugh because my husband knows me very well and even jokes that my craziness is the reason he’s with me.

But there are times when I’d like to appear partially sane in front of him which isn’t easy. Not too long ago while I was typing away on the laptop he looked at me, grinned, and said, “Rosemary leaves.” I stopped typing, my eyes wide open and a gasp escaping my lips before I covered my face in embarrassment. I started laughing. I thought I had been careful.

See, I usually take an empty water bottle into the shower, pretend it’s a microphone and sing. There were no empty water bottles so I tip-toed to the kitchen and walked with a dumbbell shaped spice jar behind my back until I was safely in the bathroom. I, of course, forgot to take it out of the shower so this is what he saw:


I tried to explain but that wasn’t necessary; he already knew.

Then a few weeks ago I opened my cupboard while he stood beside me. We were having an ordinary conversation until he saw what was in my cupboard.

Here’s what he saw:


He looked at me and asked, “What is an egg doing in your cupboard?”

I’d like to think the photo is self-explanatory because my explanation isn’t any better: I had an egg in my hand, forgot I had an egg in my hand, went to the bedroom, saw the egg in my hand and didn’t know why I had it. So I placed it on one of my shirts in my cupboard.

The egg is still there, I’ve grown used to seeing it every time I open my cupboard. I would even go as far as saying that I’ve grown fond of the little thing.

I don’t think it’s necessary to be ‘normal’ because, really, who’s normal these days? We all have peculiarities. They don’t define us but they set us apart from everyone else because they’re distinctly us.

So these days I boldly leave the rosemary leaves jar in the shower, I brazenly dance to the music from television adverts and I don’t care if there’s an egg in my cupboard.

Because we all have peculiarities; might as well embrace them.


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