Some of the most interesting philosophical discussions have been held at the end of my French class. Contrastingly, some of the most deplorable words have been said to me in my corner of the room, but whether insult or tease, I usually enjoy them. Because I enjoy talking, I enjoy socializing. I enjoy French.
One of the most recent topics of discussion that emerged during a game of Quizlet Live or Gimkit has been “nonchalance.”
I argued that nonchalance is, well, stupid. Why is it cool to not care about things? Why is being mysterious something so sought after?
As the conversation shifted from the attractiveness of not caring to me showing the class my extra layer of cheetah print pajama pants and grey leg warmers under my jeans, I heard an exasperated, joking comment from behind me.
“You’re not real.”
Maybe it’s not normal to wear cheetah print PJs and grey leg warmers under one’s jeans. But who can blame me? I was cold.
You’re not real.
I have often wondered if people get tired of my tendency to be loud—or if my entire French class is over me saying whatever comes to mind. And yet, I don’t seem to care what they think. And yet, the “embarrassing things Micah says in French” note goes on.
I have long cared for approval from others, to please. I know I can be a bit off-putting. I see the glances, and I hear him say, “You’re not real,” with his hands covering his face as he laughs at me.
And yet, now, I take it as a compliment.
Yes, I’m loud and “chalant,” and yes, I wore a wedding dress and then a short wig and then a wedding dress to school on Halloween, and yes, I cried three times at the Wicked movie because it was good. It was powerful. And it made me happy.
The funny thing is, for all the trouble I go through worrying about what other people think about me, I don’t mind being annoying if I’m happy. Truly happy.
I like going to the gas station and drinking the largest gargantuan size of slushie possible. I like yelling in parking lots. I like lying down in (safe) streets and climbing on (safer) roofs. I like putting false eyelashes on Mr. George’s cardboard cutout of Leonardo DiCaprio. I like being on stage. I like quintuple-texting people. I like laughing; I like smiling.
I like whimsy.
I like understanding that not everything is about me and realizing that everyone else is sucked up in their own worlds, too busy to worry about what that girl said in French or what she wore on Halloween.
I long for the life I once lived when longing to be a princess was not looked down upon; when raising your hand in class or having a solo in the class choir was not only socially acceptable but sought after.
I’d rather go through life knowing I’ve lived than knowing I stayed under the generally accepted level of loudness in high school. I’d rather be called childish than boring; I’d rather be thought of as annoying than have no personality whatsoever.
I’d rather not care at all. I’d rather be “nonchalant” to the point of being whimsical than to the point of being silent.
