The Average Of Deviance

in Venus Envy, Rita Mae Brown

I've often wondered about myself - the same sort of vague worry my mom has more than once voiced. Yesterday, it occurred to me that I had a really miserable amount of crockery and utensils - comparatively (personally though, I feel it's adequate). The girls were always surprised at how little I have in way of mugs and bowls and plates: they all owned at least half a dozen of mugs, bowls and plates each.

I have four butter knives, four forks, and three spoons (one having gotten lost after a pot-luck three years ago) that came in a set my dad had bought me when I first arrived. There is a black mug for coffee and tea - sometimes even milk - and a glass I mostly use as a vase.

Two years ago in Chinatown back home, I bought two bowls, two soup spoons, and two sauce dishes with matching rooster designs because I was tickled by how old-fashioned they looked in their kitschy way, and two pairs of red chopsticks. (Goddess knows why I bought the chopsticks when the only things I can do effectively with them are beat eggs, and wear them in my hair.) I also have two dinner plates, one small plate, one large cup-and-saucer set which serve as a bowl and plate respectively ever since I broke the handle of the cup.

The extent of my chattels is farthest thing from my introspection; it is its significance that is the cause for concern.

The reason the girls owned so much crockery is because they often had company in their rooms, (Jaya, for example, used to house Michelle and Rathy who had moved out of Unicomm's accomodations) and they had their meals together. They even had extra pillows and duvets for overnight guests.

Jen, the only person who can more or less truly claim to be as unsociable as I am, had at least four mugs, and she kept the four wine glasses we bought when we were rooming together. I once asked her why she needed so many mugs and she said, "For entertaining."

However unsociable a butterfly she claimed to be, she still had anticipated entertaining company in her room.

So what does this say about my solitary mug and glass/vase?

I've never been more aware of my solitude than now - and I've never been happier. And that's sort of worrying.

I worry that I've gotten so used to my own company that I'd never be happy in any other circumstances. I like doing what I like, whenever I feel like doing it. I like not having to co-ordinate with or wait for someone. I like how quiet and still it is being in my studio alone, hearing my own breath and heartbeat. I like being able to talk to myself, or laugh, or read aloud, without somebody giving me sideway glances or asking questions.

I like being alone. Period. I like being alone so much - or maybe I dislike interaction enough - that I almost never answer my phone or cell-phone. I prefer listening to voice-mails and reading text messages and emails. I've figured, if it is absolutely imperative that you get hold of me, or if the message is important enough, you'll leave a voice-mail telling me what the message is or why you're looking for me, or you'll text me. If it's a single (as opposed to multiple) "can you call me back when you get this message" voice-mail or text, I assume it is safe to ignore it.

The only thing that I find wanting is cooking for myself. There are times I get really sick of my cooking because: one, I've a really small repertoire; two, I've been cooking the same things for the past two years; and three, I really suck at cooking. Once in a blue moon, I'd miss my dad's cooking, but I can always console myself with takeaways.

I worry that maybe my mom might have been right to worry I have what she called "zi4 bi4 zheng4", which I gathered is some kind of psychological illness or autism - maybe there is something wrong with me. People are social animals, aren't they - herd animals? If one prefers one's own company to others', well, then, one mustn't be ... normal. (How I abhor that word.) Especially if one talks more, on a daily basis, to inanimate objects and oneself than to other people.

Hell, I don't know why I even give a shit about "normality" - as if there is such a thing; it's all about perspective and the majority's perception.

Stuff that.



One day, I will be a Beautiful Freak, but for now, I'll contend with averageness.