The Life Of The Weirdo

After nearly 40 years of being one, I’ve pretty much gotten used to being a weirdo.

I mean, in general, I know that the way I think about things isn’t going to align terribly well with the way the rest of the world thinks about things, and as a result I’ve been able to adjust my expectations.

Usually, at any rate.  I know that, for example, not having any interest in sports is going to lead to a lot of time spent listening to things I have no interest in hearing about, and I know that people are going to look at me as though I have two heads when I say heretical and nonsensical (to them) things like, “I don’t care about sports.”

There are some things, though, that still manage to surprise me, and which don’t really seem that weird at all, and yet, given the way the world is, they must be.

I am, for example, apparently a weirdo because I’m looking for a belt that’s designed for a waist that’s under 32 inches.

And for wanting to buy a pair of black jeans that aren’t “skinny jeans.”

Those don’t seem that unusual – though to be fair, on the belt front, it’s worth remembering that this is America – and yet, here I am, after a trip to Target, devoid of either a new belt or a pair of black jeans.

I’m such a weirdo, apparently...