Will You Accept Me As A Nonconformist?

            After my quick click to accept the invitation to join the nonconformist group, I questioned my qualifications. Would the television remote, cordless phone, indoor grill, and electric can opener expose me as a fraud?

            Within a few days, someone called me on the bumper sticker with the dirty word. A neighbor knocked on the door to ask if I knew someone (me) had placed a toy soldier with a bring me home sign across his chest on my window ledge, and the temperature warmed enough for me to wear my newest tee shirt, Another opinionated woman for Kerry.

            I decided there was hope. Wardrobe alone might secure my acceptance. I wore a tux with a gold lame halter top the year (1973) my employer decided the holiday party was open only to those in formal attire. Later, when their image consultant advised us to dress for the positions we wanted instead of those we had, I showed up the next day in sweats, explaining I wanted to own the company and be free of dress codes.

            I promised the last man I dated I would consider wearing a bra when I noticed him putting on a jock strap every time he left the house. My fingernails, eye color, breasts, butt cheeks, gray hairs, and lines are all natural.

            I campaign for the right to do things I have no desire to do, stand up for people and policies I don't much like. Devil's advocate suits me well but (maybe because) I don't believe in the devil. I value my personal beliefs, principles, experience, and intuition far above public opinion, and numbers don't impress me; the majority is often wrong.

            My idea of nice does not include lying to others so they won't have to face the truth. Every person is equal in my view, and I will remind people of this even when they believe their position exempts them from decency. I don't belong to a church or own anything with Tommy on it.

            The remote really wasn't my fault. When I replaced the television that had outlived replacement parts, the new one came without an antenna, making cable or satellite (and consequently the remote) necessary. I kept the rotary phone until my daughter's friends stopped asking how to use it and whipped out their cell phones instead. Arthritis is my excuse for the can opener, and the grill was a gift. I would be rude if I didn't appreciate that gift.

            My car is ten years old, I don't own a dishwasher, ipod or palm pilot. My living room houses a hutch my great grandparents owned, my grandmother's chair, the green velvet couch my aunt bought over thirty years ago with a picture her husband drew hanging over it., and the rocking chair my husband bought the day I found out I was pregnant with my nineteen-year-old daughter. I could have updated over the years, but these things all serve their purposes well, and I like them.

            I hope I have convinced you to accept me. If this isn't enough, I'll submit another piece on my aversions to big weddings, school uniforms, and anything Disney.