Misfit

“Try that one” my friend said, pointing to a bright shirt. “Maybe it will fit better” he joked.  The garment he pointed to was hi-vis yellow, with purple stripes and glow in the dark green poka-dot. Of course I was going to try the shirt on: I’ll do anything, just as long as it affects the other person more. I’ll eat insects, just because it grosses others out. Side note: always remove grass hopper legs prior to eating them, otherwise the legs get stuck in your teeth.

Grabbing the shirt off the rack, I slipped into the dressing room.

Throwing the door open, I popped out with a twirl. “Nope, doesn’t fit.” He said, shielding his eyes with his hand. “It makes you look too crazy”.

“Crazy?” I asked. “I was crazy once, they put me in a rubber room, it was filled with rats, I hate rats, they make me crazy!” I said shouting the last part. “Crazy?” I asked again, as if for the first time. “I was crazy once, well they said I was. They put me in a room, it was rubber, but it was filled with rats! I hate rats. They make me crazy.”

My friend was starting to walk away. Shaking his head, pretending not to know me. He really should have known not to get me started.

“Crazy?” I asked with a grin. He knew this could go around and around all day.

People in the store were staring to stare.  They couldn’t see him.

Maybe I was crazy. Crazy for being wild. Crazy for trying on a bright shirt. Crazy for talking to myself. Maybe I was a misfit after all. But when a shirt doesn’t fit, you change the shirt. You don’t change yourself to fit the shirt. So when I don’t fit into society, that’s OK. Maybe it’s not me that needs to change. Maybe they are the misfits.