When I was a young adult I wanted to stand out, to be weird, to be different (but in a good way, of course). I thought it sounded romantic and interesting to be crazy. Not so crazy that I was institutionalized or suicidal or anything like that, but just crazy enough so that no one would mistake me for someone else. So that people would say, “Oh, that Alison, now she is a character!” And then they would shake their heads in wonder at my baffling complexity. But they would say it in a way that made it obvious they really admired my baffling complexity. I would thus wear my baffling complexity like a badge of honor: Oh my, I am so complex that people can’t even figure me out. But they like that they can’t figure me out! Yippee, I am a success!

Yeah. The older adult me has something to say to that younger adult me: Hahahahahahahahahahahaha! Woo-hoo you are a funny girl! Lolololololol. No, seriously, you wanted what again? Because now I want nothing more than to be just like everyone else (but in the best ways, of course). And while the young adult that’s still bouncing around in my brain thinks that sounds incredibly borrrrrinnnng, the older adult me (did I just call myself an “older adult”?!??!?!?) thinks it sounds absolutely delightful. What a relief it would be to know I am not alone in my feelings and in my utter confusion about what in the world I am really doing anyway!

And good news! I am relieved because I get to have exactly what I want! I am just like everyone else. YES! I laugh and cry and empathize and snarl and get it and scrunch up my face in bewilderment and mess up and resolve to do better and judge and feel guilty about it and long for connection and love and grasp for those things with flailing arms. I am beautiful in my sameness.

What I didn’t really understand when I was younger is the most obvious fact: I stand out because I exist. Period. We all do. Just like everyone else, I am my own special brand of human, and if that ain’t crazy, I don’t know what is!