On our way last night to see “Sinister,” a horror-suspense movie about a true crime author who is destroyed by the quest to write a best seller, my Beloved and I were having a deep conversation as we dodged the panhandlers on the mall (because it was an effective passive-aggressive alternative to saying, “nope, can’t help you”).
I suggested to my Beloved that the behavior of a certain acquaintance of ours proved a theory of mine. My theory is not important here — it has to do with how one’s first sexual experience causes fetishes and even as I write it now, it sounds a little hair-brained — but what’s important is that I was espousing a theory of mine.
And my Beloved, who tolerates many of my strange behaviors (like my poor housekeeping and love for quinoa) but loves me for my smarts (and good looks), said, “That sounds like all your theories. You believe in moon phases and tarot cards and that everything is connected. I don’t think so. Stuff just happens. Sometimes there no reason for things.”
What?! Am I one of those crazy dreamers? One of those abstract screwballs? Is my Beloved in love with a weirdo?
The true is, I have always related with the polka-dotted elephant on the Island of Misfit Toys. I mean, I admit: I do believe the full moon causes lunacy.
And then this profundity crossed my mind:
You’re unique. Just like everyone else.
That’s the explanation I’m going to cleave to: I may be weird.
But so are you.
Note: As if to prove my theory on uniqueness, the headline for this post comes from “Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home” when Pavel Chekov is cornered by two FBI agents and waves around an inoperable phaser gun. “What do you think?” says one agent. “He’s a Russki,” says the other. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard in my life. Of course he’s a Russki.”