Questionable Humor and Zipper Earrings

I can be an embarrassing person.  I like to tell bawdy jokes and I laugh too loudly at them. I sneeze like the end of the world has arrived.  I sometimes like to dress outlandishly and I love my zipper earrings.  Mind you I can wear a ball gown or a suit and pass for almost normal, but mostly the artist who just does not want to conform seeps out.  When I am angry you know it, usually by silence and dark looks, but sometimes by comments that can make even my blood run cold.

I have a friend, and it is amazing that she is my friend, as I recall an evening in a bar eons ago when my comment made others blush.  She was sort of blonde and flirting madly with a man I liked, a redhead and I love red hair.  She was commenting on being blonde (a pet peeve of mine, blondes with hair that behaves - no jealously there eh?) and she said  "I'm really just a dirty blonde, Ha a ha ha."  To which I replied very dryly, without missing  a beat "Yes, we know."  A male friend of mine let out an "Oh" and ran his hand through his hair, while looking askance at me.  As I said, you can usually tell what I am thinking and feeling; yikes.

I loved Janis Ian's song "At Seventeen" though it made me sad; in a sea of relative propriety, I was that dark haired, dark eyed, peculiar person who clearly and simply, could neither grasp nor follow, the rules.

In my house the rules were different;  I am half Greek. We talked about expression and the value of an improper passion which broke new ground.  My parents admired and accomplished work that went in new directions and helped others by so doing.  I was not supposed to be cool, though ladylike was encouraged; I never quite got that one either. When I was a small child, we danced in the living room and quoted "Zorba the Greek," I knew that "Never on Sunday" was referring to a prostitute who would not bed a client on the Sabbath and nobody ever told me that repression was good for the soul. I can be embarrassing.

I have a few friends who love me and I am very blessed to have them in my life; I love them too.  They embrace my quirks, and rather than being embarrassed, they just gently let me know when I am a bit over the top with a gentle touch and a knowing chuckle. They celebrate my exuberance and sometimes choose to leave me off the guest list of certain kinds of events; it's kinder that way.  I know the price of choices.

Once in a while someone lets me know that, to them, I am not an acceptable person.  They make me aware that they are able to stand being in a room with me, but barely; that it is because of their great tolerance and self control that I may live, breathe, walk, eat and sleep.  I am grateful for such magnanimity (note sarcasm).  My mother used to say "A cat can look at a King."  In those moments, deep in the grace of great, controlled beings, that "Meow" crosses my mind, while I cat-like, lick my wounds. I feel for those who bear the weight of self importance required to keep the portrayal of great souls. Meanwhile I revel in the silliness of some word play and irrelevant, irreverent dance and laughter. I have not lived fifty five years through dialysis, transplantation and parenthood to owe anything, not even polite compliance to behavioral "norms."

Hey Zorba:   "Dance?  Did you say dance? Come on my boy!"