I know I’m strange, but I’m not the only one. I take comfort in this. Though I’m not uncomfortable being strange. My wife gives me sideways glances a lot. “You’re weird,” she states, as if she’s just now noticed after 12 years. “Do you know that you’re weird?”
And I’m not doing anything all that odd when she declares my strangeness as if it’s something to be examined. I hold my coffee mug with two hands. She says I look like a turn-of-the-century poor child begging for soup in the cobbled streets of England. I say that’s a bit of a stretch.