Being silly makes perfect sense to me

I suppose I could be classified as odd, a quality I’m quite fond of though I’m not sure everyone has such an aspiration.
Thankfully, for me, being odd comes rather naturally, doesn’t require much effort at all on my part.
Plus, I think my oddness tops the list of attributes my daughters admire about me, though the list may be a small one.
Singing in the grocery store is considered odd I was told, told with a disparaging tone. Speaking Irish is one of my favourite oddities, sometimes blended with Scottish overtones.
My ancestors fled Scotland through Ireland and the Stewarts ended up somewhere in North Dakota before calling Crozier home so it’s only natural that my pretend accent is a bit muddled; makes it more authentic perhaps.
I can’t help speaking Irish. I have been watching BBC network programs, which seems to have firmly planted the “Irish” in my vocal chords and I may have permanently lost or, at the very least, misplaced “me Canadian voice.”
I recently had friends stay for a week and we spoke pretend Irish the entire time. Those are the kind of friends to have, those who not only embrace oddness, but also climb on board. I think speaking pretend Irish makes me bilingual at the very least.
My odd repertoire needed some freshening up recently, something new to add to the list. I went out to my garden not long ago to “fetch” some blueberries in my jammies. Well, to be perfectly accurate, the blueberries weren’t wearing my jammies, I was.
Next thing I knew I was weeding. In my jammies.
Could have been my ADD rather than my oddness, but at this point that is a very fine line.
My ADD strikes at any given moment, like the time I went downstairs to put a load of laundry in and end up painting the downstairs bathroom. I prefer to think of it as making good use of my time, a more positive definition.
My neighbours can’t really see what I am up to unless they make a dedicated effort involving hiding behind my trees and/or wearing night-vision goggles and the like.
As it turns out, my pajamas aren’t exactly very pajama-looking, but still, pajamas none the less.
There are days when the silly side of my brain wins out over serious and proper decorum. Actually, that happens most days.
I am reasonably well known for the pose I strike that I refer to as my interpretive dance. It is just the one move though.
I don’t have a vast repertoire or style, just the one. No apologies. I was told to never apologize for telling the truth.
Silly is a good thing. For me. I used to sing when I went skiing with my daughters and Samantha indignantly would say, “No one sings while they are skiing.”
That’s not true, I explained to Samantha. I sing. Therefore, at the very least there is one someone who sings while she skis.
The explanation made good sense at the time. Samantha has since forgiven me my embarrassing indiscretions.
We don’t get out alive of this thing called life so why not go through it with a few silly moments thrown in for good measure, with a sizeable helping of giggles and guffaws.
Now that makes perfect sense to me.