What to do when you’re the weird one
So there I was, on my nightly 8 p.m. walk around the big prairie loop of St. Olaf’s Natural Lands. The sunset was gorgeous, the sun itself tucked away beyond the horizon but its warm orange glow melding exquisitely into the bluish-purple haze of evening sky. I was listening to Wilco’s “Yankee Hotel Foxtrot,” an album I would categorize as “perfectly collegiate.” And that’s how I was feeling on this particular walk — perfectly collegiate. Alone, out in the chilly air, thinking about the relationship I’d recently torn asunder, allowing myself to bask in the melancholy glory of such songs as “Kamera” and “Jesus, Etc.”
I rounded a bend in the prairie loop and saw, ahead, coming toward me on the path, three people. Now, I’m accustomed to seeing others on these nightly excursions. In fact, I’ve even met a few acquaintances that share the same walking habit. However, this situation was distinct.
The two people nearest to me were evidently a couple. They were walking close together, masks off, carrying that air of incredulity that only hovers around two people intimately comfortable in each other’s presence. The third was farther off, but running purposefully, sporting a hot pink track jacket and sporty earbuds.
My perception of space and time being excellent, I instantly knew we were all destined to converge on the path in the same spot and at the same time. I doubt the other characters in this little story recognized the impending confrontation as distinctly as I did — they were three moving in the same direction, so could not see one another. I guess the runner might have; but the couple were left unawares of the predicament they found themselves literally in the middle of.
I continued walking, now much more anxiously, waiting for something to give. We all approached one another. I tried to slow down and allow the runner to pass, but they had the same thought, themselves bringing their pace to a stunted trot. So I suddenly accelerated, leaning forward and hustling past the couple so the runner could continue their journey onward. I escaped the little unplanned rendezvous and noticed I was breathing heavily, my natural demeanor sucked away when presented with this tense moment.
Part of the tension of this random encounter came from the fact that I perceived myself, and I’m pretty sure was also perceived, as the weird one. I was by myself, walking in the opposite direction, with jeans and sandals on, bookbag still around my shoulders while walking a little too fast as I tried to keep my legs in time with the music. I looked, in a phrase, a bit out of place, like some omnipotent being had just picked me up out of the library and dropped me in this prairie, leaving me to scamper my way back to campus.
The couple, of course, were a couple, relaxed in their general demeanor, enjoying each other’s company. The runner had their own purpose, motivated to finish their run strong and to feel good about doing something physically challenging. The other three characters in the story had their own separate meaningful intentions, whether it was to spend time with a loved one or to improve their physical health.
Me, on the other hand, my only purpose was to walk, and even that I was doing in the most perplexing way. Why would I still have my bookbag on? There’s nowhere I was going that needed it. Why was I walking so fast? If the purpose of this walk was leisure, surely I would be better served slowing down to enjoy the environment. And why did I try and slow down first? I should have read the situation better and just continued walking.
Taken altogether I’m sure I portrayed a semi-frantic figure awkwardly maneuvering their way through the Natural Lands. I was, in that moment, among that quartet of fellow big prairie loop travelers, the very essence of weirdness.
I pattern so much of my life off of not being weird. I consciously avoid scenarios where I may be perceived as strange or awkward, and I avoid relationships when I myself perceive too much of a dichotomy between one person’s relative social standing and my own. “Surely,” I think to myself, “if I talk with this person right now, they’d think I’m quite weird.” For my own self-preservation I rarely push myself outside of my comfort zone and into an area of uncertainty and awkwardness.
So feeling that way tonight made me extra vulnerable and uncomfortable. But it also got me thinking, and that’s why I’m here now, writing about being weird.
Being weird is a pretty subjective thing, but I think we all, in a way, operate such that we limit our perceived weirdness. That’s why we, for the most part, stick with the same core group of friends, sit at the same spot in the library, or follow the same day-to-day routines. We want to minimize feelings of weirdness or strangeness, so we cast ourselves into the trap of comfortability.
That’s not at all a bad thing. I myself am probably the biggest offender, to the point where I somewhat brag about how diligent I am at sitting in the same window seat or getting breakfast at the same time every Monday-Wednesday-Friday morning. I feel weird when these plans are thrown off or interfered with in some way.
I also feel weird when I think back to moments where I was too comfortable, where I had sunk myself into an environment I knew in some way was bad for me but which I was too hesitant to leave because the act of leaving, or of separation, or of finding myself someplace else, would feel too foreign and too strange. But that’s why I call comfortability a trap. It can trap you in a sense of stagnation and lead you to do things that ultimately aren’t good for yourself.
We, as people, need constant growth and exposure to new things. Or at the very least we need to be able to recognize when we’re only staying in a spot — whether it be a relationship, a class, or just a certain specific environment — because it is comfortable, although we know it is not ideal and we would prefer something else entirely.
None of this final tangent really has anything to do with the story above. Or, I guess it might. I guess without putting myself in that weird situation out in the Natural Lands I wouldn’t be writing this piece right now. That exposure to that uncomfortable circumstance has driven a new piece of writing. So surely if I, Mr. Comfortability, can push myself to build off of and learn from a particularly uncomfortable and weird experience, so can you. So can we all.
Go be weird. Go push yourself to be uncomfortable. We all deserve it.
