There it is again…the look.
Just one of many faces that have paused with incredulity before answering, “That sounds interesting.”
It bothered me at first, the look, but now I silently chuckle and count how long it takes people to regain their composure. It’s the same look that Sam’s teacher gave him when he announced to the class that Jesus didn’t raise his goldfish from the dead even though he laid hands on it.
The look slips through people’s polite facades. It happens so quickly that their brains comprehend your words before their mouths do.
“We sold our house and we’re moving to the country.”
Their comprehension of your insanity flashes across their eyes before they say, “Wow that’s different, what made you decide to do that?”
“It’s something we always felt that we were supposed to do.”
Their eyes widen in disbelief and I can see that the words “poor girl” are swimming in their mind.
The reaction almost always comes from women. It seems harder for women to accept that I am not normal. Andy usually gets blamed for my lack of girly-girl mannerisms. But the truth is, I just don’t fit any mould.
I do wear nail polish on occasion, but it’s always some neon shade due to my three boys picking it out. I prefer the gun range to a pedicure, and I think Satan invented pantyhose. I only wear make-up because it contains sunscreen. I prefer wildflowers to roses, and sci-fi to romantic comedies.
And I just traded a “perfect” life in the ‘burbs for a life of cows, gardens, and a Wal-mart as the only source of shopping.
The cows. The topic of our cows is now my favorite source of the look.
“You actually bought cows?”
“Yep, oh, and they’re pregnant.”
“When are they due?”
“Well, that’s something, good luck with that.”
Good luck with that.
Polite speak for you’re insane and I give it 6 months.