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Quirky

The Source

It was a strange restroom in a strange house, but I couldn’t help myself. No, I’m not one of those nosy guests who look in other people’s medicine cabinets, but I had to check behind the shower curtain. I’d never done this before, but I’d been infected. Last June I sat in a small circle of teenagers as we “passed the sheep.” This is a little icebreaker exercise in which I ask a question and if you have an answer we toss a small stuffed sheep in your direction. My question had been, “Do you have any quirks?” One college sophomore told us, “I can’t go to the bathroom if the shower curtain is closed. I have to check behind it.” That was about the silliest thing I heard all summer and now I’ve done it three times since then. I’d been infected by a quirk. As the sheep kept making its way around the circle I was astounded at the illogic and variety of the responses. For example, I couldn’t believe how many 18-year-olds still avoid stepping on a sidewalk crack. I used to have this fear when I was little so I forced myself to begin stomping on the fissures and my mother’s back didn’t suffer a bit. One girl said that it scared her when she’d walk by an air conditioner or refrigerator when the motor kicked in. Amazingly, three more of our sheep circle agreed. That’s quirky. And it seems as if nighttime is still fright time for most of us. Big, strapping college boys admitted to being afraid of the dark and when I asked if anyone still took one large step before climbing into bed (to keep something grabbing them from under the slats) most of the hands went up. Quirkiness doesn’t seem to dissolve with age. The shadow of trees on their bedroom walls got several spooky votes, and none of the group seemed completely at ease with what might be lurking in their closet once the light is turned off. And yes, many college dorm rooms still sport nightlights. One girl confessed that she couldn’t bring herself to use a pencil. She shyly admitted that the friction of graphite on paper gave her the creeps. One other teen agreed and laughed with relief, thinking she was the only non-scratcher in the universe. A girl who’d recently moved to our area from Chicago said that the sound of quiet drove her crazy. She had to put on music to sleep at night. I usually switch questions after a few responses but this was getting interesting so I kept the stuffed sheep rolling around our little circle and the kids became more and more courageous in their responses. The next answer took us all by surprise when a girl said, “Rice pudding.” Huh? “They look like something that hasn’t developed yet…embryos or something. They used to show us these films in biology and it’s ruined me for rice pudding.” This got us off on a food kick as one of our circle said he couldn’t abide soft-boiled eggs for reasons resembling the rice pudding aversion. Another boy said, “I can’t do Jell-O or anything that jiggles.” (He found that he was alone on this one.) Another young man said that he couldn’t bring himself to eat yogurt after reading that it contained live bacteria. “That’s just wrong,” he said. “You should wait for something to die before you eat it.” We laughed as we shared our personal quirks and disbanded the circle with a reassuring hug, but as the group moved on to their next camping event I found myself digging deep into my psyche to see if I had any traces of quirkiness. I mean after all, I’m an adult, right? I’ve left childish things behind. Or maybe not . . . I recently gave the eulogy at a friend’s funeral. It was a graveside service and we sat in those wooden old-time funeral chairs that are a part of so many of our memories. The lady ahead of me was wearing a colorful yellow blouse . . . nothing wrong with that. . .except for that darned raveling. It hung down about four inches from the hem of her blouse and I completely lost my focus on the deceased, wondering how I might pull the thing loose without causing a mild disturbance on the first row of mourners. I seldom bring scissors to funerals so I was stuck. Unless….I mean, I thought that perhaps I could grab the thread high up toward her back then snap it off with my other. No….she might feel the tug. I had a pack of matches in my pocket and if I were to spit on my fingers and wet the portion closest to her blouse, I could light the other and it would burn as far as . . . too chancy, and besides that she’d smell her clothing burning. Stuck with looking at the yellow dangler I tried to concentrate on what the minister was saying, thanking God that I wasn’t quirky.