Is it paranoia or my own self-consciousness, I thought leaving the room full of charming English people. Why do I feel as if I am a transvestite trying to fit in amongst a beauty contest, quietly convincing myself that people will not notice that I am a puzzle piece but to the wrong puzzle? Walking down the stairs, I stumble over my generic Uggs and feel the awkwardness entwine me like a snake in a tree; my face highlighted red by my embarrassment as I hear people quietly giggle to themselves at my display of clumsiness. (Does anyone make awkward moves in England? Or is it just an American thing?) I try to compose myself and search in my bag for the one thing that always calms my hands; as well as making it seem like I am on a mission, too busy to notice my temporary, but fading sunburn as I make it near to the door.
The cold air refreshes my face back to the normal colour and I light up a fag. It is not the slang, I thought, inhaling the first breath of fresh air since my last one. I have gotten good at noticing it. Fit means attractive, not healthy. Pissed is an action, not an emotion. Trousers are pants, but not the other way around. “You alright” is “what’s up”, not “what’s wrong?” Fanny is not a bum. I make my way through the sea of these words and continue on my way.
“Excuse me” I say trying to get passed a group of people and then a thought occurs to me. Maybe it is my accent, which makes me feel as if I am the dandelion amongst the lilacs, lilies, and roses – still a flower but not the one people take notice to. Walking through the greens, blues, reds and yellows of nature, contrasting greatly with the grey rocks in the sky, I head towards my destination. At the end of the day, I don’t voice my opinion nearly as much as I do in the states, but keep quiet and listen with a spice of jealousy at their elegant speech and confident demeanor. (How is it they can say the exact thing I am thinking but with much more of a delightful manner?) This is not to say that some Americans do not act in this manner; however, it seems there is an element missing, like having curry without the coriander or a peanut butter and jelly sandwich without the bread to hold it together. Something is missing.
The wind blew my curly ginger (insert joke here) hair into a flurry of tangled weeds, which made me think; maybe it is my looks that make me feel like a left trainer amongst a country of perfectly paired heels. I never quite got it right. I wear flared jeans; everyone is wearing skinny jeans. I wear my hair up; everyone is wearing their hair down. I wear the boho look; everyone is wearing the 80’s look. I wear bright colours; everyone is wearing black. English girls with their ski-sloped noses, hair straighter than the roads in Midwest America, and skin purer than Snow White’s… then there was me: a nose fit for the wicked witch of the West, hair as straight as the roads in England, and Tango-ed skin from fake tan.
I sit down at an unstable wooden bench, decorated in an unfashionable manner; it did not quite fit in with its surroundings but somehow it did. It was as if the owner decided to plop down this bench, not worried how awkward it looked. The vivid piece was along side an antique cement bench, with Celtic designs and sturdy appearance. And there the two sat, in complete chaotic harmony.
With my tangled weeds, left trainer, and style three years too late, I lit up another breath of fresh air. So what was it, I pondered? Paranoia? Self-consciousness? Maybe it was nothing; maybe it was me being me. A wooden bench amongst a cement one; different but creating harmony in an unstable way. Just as I am and just how I like to be. I looked at the sky; I thought…it is afternoon. But then again, this was nothing but an afternoon thought.
