Dancing to the beat of my own violin.

I’m 2/3rds of the way through project runway, the part of the show where they critique the outfits. As I’m listening to the judges’ comments I’m drawing a comparison between the show and me fitting in (or not) with the rest of my family; rarely a day goes by around here that someone doesn’t comment on some part of me. Now, in my family’s defense I give them a lot of material. At any given moment I’m likely to waltz into the room wearing a tiara, I own more hair bows then the law should allow, and I’m obsesses with Disney princesses, like really obsessed. So, I get it, I’m weird. I delight in my weirdness. Trouble is, so does my family, just not in a way I’d like. “Who even owns a petticoat anymore?” my sister asks as I come in from work. Obviously I do as I’m clearly wearing one.