starched collars and subacultcha

I just had an interesting conversation with a co-worker. It reminded me of a similar conversation I had while working at Big Crimson a few years ago. Good natured, chatty colleague drops by to say hi and have some casual small talk about the upcoming weekend. He's a new employee, and a genuinely nice guy. But I could tell by the nature of our past conversations that he had already made certain assumptions about my lifestyle.

I like the rock and roll. A lot. I push the edges of the Northwest business casual dress code faithfully. I recently shaved my head. I ride a big-ass scooter. I have tattoos. I have a nose ring. I have cats. I rave about living on Capitol Hill. I say "fuck the man!"

I guess it's only natural that someone would assume I am either a) a lesbian or b) a druggie.

So the friendly co-worker asked what was up, how I was, etc. I was rubbing my eyes heavily with the heels of my hands when he appeared. I didn't sleep last night, as usual. I slept this morning though, and came into work at 10:30 with my hair shaped like my pillow. "I'm pretty tired today," I said glumly.

"Rough night?" he asked, with a nudge-nudge, wink-wink. Because clearly I was out raising hell at the Bad JuJu until all hours. "You should start getting in before three a.m. then!" he said.

I chuckled. "I go to bed at ten o'clock every night," I told him. He looked dumfounded. "And I don't drink." Total and complete shock. "I have a sleeping disorder. I wake up every twenty minutes, so I don't often get a decent amount of sleep. So yeah, it was a rough night." I wasn't offended or anything, but I could tell he felt a little embarrassed.

The truth is, I'm a nerd and I'm really boring. My favorite thing in the world to do on a Friday night is curl up in a chair, eat fruit and read a personal growth book. I love my life. I've got no problem with the way I spend my time. I'll spend hours at Wishville cutting up old issues of Oprah and listening to A Prairie Home Companion. But it's funny when people assume -- because of the way I look or talk, or because of my values and interests -- that I'm a live-fast, die young hellion. Sometimes they even act disappointed.

Yes, there was a time when I would drink more than I could handle and egg cars from the roofs of buildings or throw empty wine bottles out the 9th floor window. I had a problem with defenestration. I've gotten help, though. It took several years of bars on the window and immovable screens, but I'm over chucking things from great heights.

I like to chalk it up simply to "foolish youth".

Although I had a really funny thought last night while doing laundry. I was thinking about a conversation I had with woman I work with yesterday. She has a condo in West Seattle on Alki Beach. She just bought a new car. And every once in a while, thanks to factory installed social pressures, I get that sneaking feeling that I should "grow up" and stop living on a boat and buy a house and a car and get married and start popping out kids. The feeling comes when I'm surrounded by people my age with mortgages, day care, reserved parking spaces and dry-clean-only linen suits. And last night I stamped my foot and said, "But I don't wanna be a grown-up for the rest of my life!"

Then I laughed out loud. Imagine having to be an adult the rest of your life! That would totally suck!! No more eating microwave popcorn for dinner, no more taping post cards to the wall, no more washing underwear in the sink because there was a good show at Neumo's on laundry night. No more sitting on the upper deck under the stars and moonflowers spitting cherry pits into the lake. No more backpacks, or Converse, or chunky headphones. No more sleeping till noon cause I feel like it, or calling in sick to work to go take pictures cause the mountain is out.

Just bills, and diapers, and property taxes, and insurance rates, and nap times, and play dates, and soccer games, and 3 squares a day, and grocery shopping on Saturdays, and lawn fertilizer and Band-Aids and cleaning ladies.

Nope. I've officially decided that I will not grow up, if growing up means surrendering my freedom and creativity for a trap and a cage. I'm sorry, but my shirts will probably always be covered in cat hair, and I will probably walk to work most days, and I might not have proper health insurance, and I may rent urban apartments for the rest of my life, and I still want to spend Friday nights in bed with The Artist's Way.

Okay, so maybe I am a social deviant and a hellion. In that case, I'll take it.