So far in my life, I have been extremely blessed. There is no way around it—In comparison to many others, I have had a remarkably easy, opportunity-filled, supportive, warm life. People love me. People believe in me. People encourage me. My parents believed (and still believe) in sparing no opportunity for their children. The world was open to us.
When I was young, tall and skinny, all my mothers friends told her I should be put in modeling. (This is entirely a different story, as I have a very distinct opinion on that.) When I achieved strange things at young ages (like owning my own business at 15), people were impressed. I was not like most of my friends. I was definitely not like most people my age.
If you want to talk about someone who could fall into a wide variety of stereotypes—I was Canadian (yet I apparently have a “valley girl” accent), homeschooled (yet one of the most social people of all my regular-schooled friends), vegetarian (unpopular when I was growing up, but now trendy) and Christian (but not preachy, psycho or judgmental). And I was the exception to every stereotype.
I tell you all of this not to build myself up, stroke my ego, brag, or boast, but to set the background for the whole point of this entry. For the most part, being the exception has been great. After all, a great deal of the world’s “rules”, well, suck. Like everything in life though, it hasn’t always been positive—sometimes this means you are the exception to the rule when the rule is easier, more desirable or generally better than the exception. Regardless, you roll with it.
I remember the first time I picked up the book, He’s Just Not That Into You. I had opened it randomly, the brightly colored cover and the catchy title standing out amongst the rest of the books on the shelf. It fell open to this page, the only chapter in the book that really could apply to me:
After watching the movie last night (which was fabulous, by the way), I did something I do sometimes when I indulge the neurotic, psycho, crazy Inner Chanel in me: I did a bit of, ah, cyberstalking. (Clearly, you can tell I learned nothing from the movie or the book.)
Somewhere along my cyberstalking adventure, I came across something I could have probably lived my whole life without seeing. God knows I needed to see it (there are no coincidences, after all), but it still froze me to my core and kept me rooted in that spot for a good couple minutes, unable to look away from the screen like some glutton for heart punishment.
And you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.
I went to bed watching old re-runs of The Nanny that night, but the next morning, it hit me so hard I stopped everything I was doing to follow the train of thought that had slammed into my head:
This time, I was the rule.
This probably means nothing to you, but it was nothing short of an epiphany for me. Sometimes, the people who are exceptions become the exception to their own rule: I became the rule in a world where I was usually the exception. And it was liberating. It was as clear as it was in the movie when Alex told Gigi, “He. is. not. into. you.”
You cannot possibly have any more questions. And in my story, I cannot possibly have any more questions. That is the bottom line. And for once in my curious, ever questioning, ever wondering life, there are no more questions, no more wonders. Somebody once said that If you want something done right, do it yourself. Here is closure I got all by myself—and it feels good.