It takes an odd number to be number one. This is what I just recently saw on a mug at a hobby store. I had to smile inside.
Being odd can’t be so bad if you’re willing to accept that odd humanistically equates to being strange or different by and from others.
Unless that transcends to being evil, how can that be wrong?
It’s not so much being number one to others or for others, but I’d like to think being odd just means standing out from the rest. I suppose in that case, by technicality, you are number one if you are the only one marked odd.
Being “odd” is not by choice; it’s a matter of an acceptance you just don’t know how to be any other way. It’s like shoes you fit into; wearing any other shoes is darn well uncomfortable, to add, having to deal with those unwanted blisters when constricted from free movement.
While the world teaches you how to be properly complacent, the inner you accepts that real you without reproach.
It is that inner you that sings that loving harmony, embracing your very soul, with warm hugs and kisses. Your inner you knows you and thus, gives you that sense of security.
The pounding noise from the outside can rather be annoying or distracting.
Your heart, your mind, your body, and your spirit are at peace with the very you meant to be.
Ways of others creates heavy demands and high pressure. Try this. Do this. Say this. This way. Not that way.
Rules, instructions, and regulations are to be accepted and understood. Being a mother of five and middle school teacher, a must for boundaries and accountability necessitates toward clear focus and delivery for our generations to follow.
Waiting around for the world to do things for you their way, however, may not only prolong your sensibility and productivity, but mess with your belief in capability.
What took only a few minutes to finish took years of putting aside. A cupboard door, that is. When my husband couldn’t find a best means to fix a broken piece from a cupboard door hinge, the entire part sat in our pantry for over two years.
I respectfully waited for my husband to do it his way, even two years later, as whenever time gave him a chance, I found us driving around to see who could custom-make an exact solid cupboard.
All the damage that kept this cupboard door from returning back to its use was a broken piece within the hinge. I looked at it and thought, Does it have to be returned back to its norm to which no one would probably even take note or is not the purpose for the cupboard to open and close?
I let that sit. For over two years.
The morning came where I looked at the door-less cupboard and decided that the moment had arrived for that cupboard door to return to use once again.
It took over two years of me complacently staring at a door-less cupboard until in my own solitude, before my husband could return, I decided to fix that cupboard door myself.
Here’s how I saw the piece missing. With hot glue and some broken up toothpicks, I could create not just the missing piece, but fortify the entire hinge to even a stronger hold.
I heated up my glue gun, broke apart some toothpicks to where I then, placed them in broken crevices before blending both together and re-merging the hinge back in before screwing it back to tightness. (I placed small tabs of duct tape to secure the hinge outside of anyone’s sight just to comfort any of my uncertainty of what I did to work.)
The fix worked.
Done.
That’s the funny of life.
The fun part is laughing silently to yourself knowing that an accomplishment had just been completed- regardless of how long it took to put aside for whatever reason the energy was not aligned to address it direct attention any sooner. Prolonging at its finest.
Having just left a fabric store, I found myself speaking with the clerk at the cutting board area.
I had been perusing through sections for so long. This was not new. I do this a lot when my mind is trying to work out a decision to go with a certain pattern or color.
I respectfully use people as my confession booth (because I’ve never been in one, perhaps, to have those “heavy” confessions).
“I trust my memory too well. I really just need to bring this coat I’ve been working on so I know exactly what fabric pattern and material will match.”
She gave me a comforting nod before asking me what material I used. Being visual and tactile when it comes to fabric, I could only describe or point to a close resemblance.
She then asked me what pattern I used. I told her that I don’t.
I tried once to use a pattern, but only to quickly discover that I just couldn’t.
The instructions of where to cut, what angle, how much… too much for the brain!
I only bought the pattern because I was under the impression this was the easier route, some magical way to more effectively and efficiently sew something up together. (The pattern wasn’t even exactly what my mind wanted, but close enough.)
For the sake of visual explanation, a pattern requires that you cut out the particular seam ends, like tabs, angling each to the lines noted, keeping in mind as to the size and length you’ve chosen, for there can be several.
The way I see it, you buy something made slightly stiffer than gift bag tissues, do your best to flatten out this delicate material, plan out and determine where and how to cut, before carefully making sure to not cut out any parts you were surely to keep.
That is all before you pin each cut-out parts to the fabric you intend to sew. Then, mind you, you need to carefully cut along the outside lines of the patttern, hoping to not have incorrectly cut-out your actual fabric.
You can pin first and then, cut. Either way, there goes that irretrievable EXTRA process of time and thinking! To add, there is the extra cost to buy a pattern and pins!
I did this ONCE in high school after seeing my mom use one and following the mental turmoil, as my mind kept telling me I didn’t need a pattern, I finally listened to what I already knew.
My mind rebels. It wants to, what I call, “James Bond” anything it can.
In fact, as I was cutting out the pattern, I distinctly recall arguing with its precursors and required parts.
I still cut the pattern my way.
Here is how MY mind works. You look at, let’s say, some pants. Two legs, a seam on each leg side and through the middle, from front to back with a divide to separate the seams from the leg down.
Imagine such three-dimensional shape as a net figure and there, with an inch to give at the seams, you have your pattern.
You measure, sketch onto the fabric the parts, cut, sew, and work to the satisfied fit.
Chances are, the first time you sew some pants, the back will be tighter than the front unless you take note to provide a little leeway or give in the back part by just making the bottom cut a little longer.
My beloved brother, John, taught me to weave thread through a sewing machine as a I watched him sew.
My first own attempt to use a sewing machine led a needle to go right through and break into the nail of my middle finger. (The stopper was missing. Pulling the needle out hurt more than feeling the needle break in.)
Since then, I’ve improved in looking at something, seeing where the seams are located and just envisioning the pattern laid out to greater familiarity.
Having recently turned forty-nine years-old, I simply have settled into the comfort of my own shoes.
I (half) jokingly remark that I continue to “James Bond” my way through life. While directions with manuals are necessary, sometimes the brain just wants to rebel from such directions if it aches another way.
The way I see it, two odds will always equal an even; any even with an odd equals an odd. Evens together will guarantee an even result. You could do away with odds to keep all evens. Just keep in mind, with the odds, there would be no number one.
All would just start off as seconds. Or, zero.
Which take the gold?
