Rebel, Rebel

So I often posit . . . why do you write? Why do I write? And really, if I was to be utterly honest, it's because I am not particularly suited to any other job. Full-time writing in some ways is utterly non-conforming. You don't punch a clock, don't have a lunch hour, don't even have to DRESS if you don't want. You can listen to music--LOUD--if you want. You can eat at your desk and not have to worry that someone who annoys you is going to drop by and want to chat. Demon Baby doesn't count. He is a Demon, but he's not ANNOYING. More like a whirling dervish of mayhem. But no, not annoying. In fact, he is rather funny.

So . . . yesterday . . . Oldest Son comes to me and says he wants to cut his hair. I am crushed. His hair is longer than mine by a bit, and it's got curls and is golden, and man . . . the kid's got good hair. To his grandparents' credit . . . not once have either of them nagged him about cutting his hair even though it's longer than his sisters'. "It's hair," has been their motto. OTHER people seem bugged by my kid's hair. I've seen older women, in particular, give him the evil eye. In fact, two weeks ago in Wal-Mart an old woman did just that--quite obviously, in fact. Then she gave ME the evil eye, like what kind of other am I to let my kid have long hair, and I glared at her, pulled him to me, and said, "I THINK YOUR HAIR IS AWESOME. HOPE THE CHICKS DIG IT." And now he wants to cut it. He's really into Ninjitsu, so I wonder if it's just hot. I told him to pull it in a ponytail, but nope. So . . . he's getting it cut. Maybe I will post before and after pictures.

So I thought about my paragraph one and my paragraph two. I don't like conforming. I don't know WHAT it is. I really don't. Sometimes I just don't like conforming for the SAKE of not conforming. And neither, frankly, do any of my friends. I once had a party with my family and friends and I looked around, and commented, "Do you REALIZE, not ONE person in this room has a real job?"

So I wonder, as I often do, is it a chicken and egg thing. Do I write for a living because no one would actually HIRE me? Or did my nonconforming nature send me off in search of a career for a nonconformist? I don't know.

Which brings me to the 4th of July. The great thing about America is it accepts us nonconformists. It lets people like me march on Washington, D.C. in the hopes of getting arrested in protest, Demon Baby in a backback. I wave my flag just like the next guy--oh, but maybe not quite, because LAST 4th, I think I might have painted Baby Girl's hair red, white, and blue.

Either way . . . Happy 4th to all. And remember, the founding fathers . . . they were rebels.

And do you write because you're rebellious? Is there a nonconformist in you just dying to get out?