Outside the Lines

There’s a fine line between eccentric and institutionalized, and I’ve spent most of my adult life doing cartwheels right on top of it. Some folks call it “marching to the beat of your own drum.” I say I’m just lucky nobody’s snatched the drumsticks out of my hands and handed me a padded roommate named Gary

See, I once walked into a post office wearing mismatched socks, a Hawaiian shirt, and a coonskin cap—middle of November, mind you—and the clerk looked at me like she wasn’t sure whether to sell me stamps or call for backup. I just smiled and asked if she had any that tasted like peppermint. That’s when I saw her quietly reach under the counter and probably press a little red button.

But I’m not crazy. At least not technically. I pay taxes, I water my plants, and I only talk to myself when I’m sure no one else is around—or when the conversation gets interesting.

Now and then, I’ll see someone muttering to a bush, flailing their arms at invisible enemies, or wearing tin foil as a fashion statement. The old me used to whisper, “There but for the grace of God…”

But the newer, more seasoned me realizes we’re all one bad week away from living in a bathrobe and yelling at traffic. The only difference between me and someone in a psych ward is that I’m outside—and sometimes not by much.

Case in point–last year, I decided to build a “thinking shed” in the backyard. A little place to sit, stare, and maybe write a poem or two if inspiration struck before the mosquitoes did. I painted it green because it made me happy, hanging up a disco ball, figuring my muse would appreciate the sparkle.

My neighbor, Bob, came over with a beer in one hand and confusion in the other.

“You startin’ a cult?” he asked, peering inside like he expected to find chanting or goats.

“Nope,” I said. “Just needed a place to sort through the voices in my head.”

Bob didn’t laugh. He backed away slowly and later left a pamphlet for a local church in my mailbox.

But truth be told, it’s a mighty thin membrane separating the everyday crazy from the completely unhinged. I once had a dog who would bark at its reflection. We never locked it up—we just said it was spirited. But when I talk to my reflection, suddenly it’s “concerning.”

You start to realize, after a certain age, that normal is a town most people pass through, not a place anybody lives. We’ve all got quirks. Some people collect garden gnomes. I gave names to mine and invited them to dinner. Sue me.

So if you see me wandering the neighborhood at sunset in pajama bottoms and cowboy boots, talking about how clouds are just sky lint, don’t worry, I’m fine.