Last night, while helping a friend create a new blog to document her experience as a rookie pedicab driver in the French Quarter, I felt it was time to get back to buisness on wordpress.
Damn. You don’t even realize this yet, but turns out I’m doing a disservice to all of you. Wouldn’t you love to come onto this blog and read posts about biking drunk tourists around the French Quarter? What if I wrote about working full time as a doula? Or maybe my evening career as a Queer Burlesque dancer? Well, I can’t. But my friend can. I am in awe of their courage to choose a career path that is unique and creative. I salute them. And I am totally jealous.
I always knew New Orleans was a place where the weird and eccentric flock to coexist with the average citizens, you know, the people who keep the city functional. That’s what attracted me to this swamp land the most. The joke in New Orleans is that no matter how eccentric you are, you’re not eccentric enough. It’s excellent.
But y’all, my self esteem is dropping. It turns out, in comparison to my neighbors in New Orleans, I’m not a part of the eccentric flock, but rather the average (ack!) citizens. My eccentricity level is so low on the weird scale that I’m practically a heterosexual white male with a full time job in finance, married with 2.5 kids and a golden retriever.
How did this HAPPEN to me?
This has to be fixed. Right away. But you can’t force eccentricity. It’s too obvious. If it’s not natural crazy, the locals can smell you coming a mile away. This ain’t high school in Pennsylvania where you can become the cool, weird girl everyone wants to befriend by having your choppy hair dyed pink and orange. Driving a Dodge Dart Sedan with a bumper sticker that say “I like your beard” next to a picture of Che Guevara is so mediocre.
In New Orleans you have to try harder.
A gentleman takes his tortoise for a walk everyday on Maple street.
Grown mustached men are known to put on sweatbands and knee-highs before taking to the street.
There are bad-ass roller derby girls, female boxers and arm-wrestling champs.
This is Nola. We love our crazy.
In my mind, I’m one of them: super fierce, one of a kind, not interested in being normal.You know, a mix of my idols: Frida Khalo, Johnny Cash, F. Scott Fitzgerald. The image that comes to mind is a tattooed, Elizabeth Taylor-esque writer.
I’ve always laughed at regular people. Especially at the airport. I flaunt a certain type of arrogance that comes from the notion that I am deeply more interesting than most people.
But in reality, I’m just starting to see that I don’t measure up to my counterparts. Turns out, I’m super boring.
A full-time educator who writes on the side and loves her Maine Coon and her boyfriend? Totally average.
Why has everyone continued to let me think otherwise?
I understand if you switch to another blog.