Cookie Cutter Nothing

I find joy in the most ridiculous things. Taking pictures of cookie cutters for a post I haven't even written, makes me giddy. Last week, I carefully arranged sticky notes and took more than one photo of them, as well. My mind is a cluster fuck of ideas that could only be labeled artistic by a mental patient. It's a running theme in my life.

When I was a kid, I never felt like I fit in with my peers. I have never had a sense of style, a clear grasp on the male species or a nuclear family. While everyone else was watching Star Wars and playing on this new contraption called Nintendo, I was playing baby dolls and mastering the art of the board game. As I got older, I continued to dress in thrift store clothes and could never put a definitive label on my musical taste. It was an absurd mix of Neil Diamond and Rage Against The Machine. In short, I've never been cookie cutter anything. I longingly watched 'normal' kids start dating and make a skirt/boot combo look runway worthy and I wondered "If I had that outfit, would it change my life?" or "After my nose job, can I look forward to the opposite sex noticing I am alive?" My hope was that one day I would fit into some mold that made me appealing to someone in any way possible. I was weird and unwillingly to see it as a positive.

After high school, I left my small town life behind for the bright lights of the city and a desire to be a new me. I still couldn't dress myself and my obsession with gay men kept me in the dark about how homely I really was. While I had great friendships with women, I was super awkward on the dating scene. Take for example the time I was on break from class, sitting outside on my giant cell phone and talking with a young man I was spending time with. I never had a firm grasp on what our relationship was, but I got to end the conversation and proclaimed my love for him. Dead silence. I quickly hung up my brick phone and accepted the fact that I was a fucking weirdo who would never have a normal relationship. I have always done things in the wrong order, with the wrong people while donning an eclectic mishmash of clothing.

When I met my husband, I attempted to freak him out by pretending to be a super slut. It didn't work. His fashion sense was worse than mine and he saw something in me that I had yet to see in myself. He thought I was pretty and wanted to have full conversations with me. And he was straight. It didn't make sense. In true fashion, I was engaged to him within a month and struggling with how I, off all people, could be a wife. What kind of girl was I? I farted, burped, ate full meals and smoked on the patio while my fiance studied for exams. Any man in his right mind knew I wasn't marriage material. I anticipated the day he would finally realize what a mess I was and make a beeline for the Witness Protection Program. He never did.

Nothing has changed. I am a mother. A mother who lets her kids eat sugar packets at restaurants and pick out their own clothes. I am a runner. A runner who smokes and will never pound the pavement for longer than 30 minutes. I am a wife. A wife who doesn't make the bed and has no problem farting before/during or after intercourse. I am a friend. A friend who adores you and will never remember your birthday. I am a music lover. A music lover who rocks out to Flor Rida alone in my kitchen and then proceeds to scream the lyrics of Nine Inch Nails while picking up my kids from school. It makes no logical sense. It used to bother me that I didn't fit some cookie cutter profile, but the older I get the less I care. I will admit to wishing I could wear bright lipstick and put an outfit together, but some things just aren't meant to be.