It takes a chunk of a lifetime to accept and truly celebrate one’s quirky, authentic self.
I’ve only admitted to good friends, for example, that I go to sleep every night with a football between my arms. Even then, I backpedal by justifying myself—describing the football, how it’s a plush pillow, yet true football size, how it’s not that I’m a closeted football fan. I’ve never been to a pro football game, although I’ve watched some occasionally on TV.
The dull details are that when I sleep on my side, my football is perfect, snugly support for shoulder and ribs, particularly when they’re achy.
As I ponder other twists in my personality, my brain lets loose a flood of unconventional eccentricities woven into the fabric of who I am.
Lately, I’ve revived my enthusiasm for Calpis, a soft drink I first tasted in Iwakuni, Japan, in the late ’70s. I recently read that a Japanese woman named Tomiko Itooka, the world’s oldest living person until she died at 116 last December, is reported to have loved Calpis. (This was in her obituary, not an ad.)
In North America, it’s called Calpico, so it won’t be confused with piss. I rather liked the Calpis name, but what can you do? It reminds me of Japan and brings a smile. Calpico/Calpis is made by culturing skim milk with lactic acid bacteria and quite a bit of sugar. No carbonation. I buy it at Daiso stores up and down the West Coast.
Another quirk—the chicken in my purse. The ho-hum specifics? She’s only three inches tall, an inch in girth (including wings), made of rubber, so no bird flu risk. She’s a goof-luck charm. I popped her out of my purse to sit on my desk while I write this daring exposé.
My chicken is a peculiar breed, hatched by a Seattle novelty store. In 2018, Archie McPhee’s became home to the world-famous Rubber Chicken Museum, testimony to the history of rubber fowl.
Rubber chickens aren’t alive, however, and maybe because mine occupies the bottom of my purse, I’ve neglected to give her a name.
Oscar, on the other hand, is full of life. At least he was the last time I visited him, albeit his lifespan is only a few years. I kick myself for not getting to see him more often at the medical imaging facility he calls home. I discovered that, without an appointment, I’m not the only person who shows up expressly to visit Oscar the fish.
The first time Oscar and I met, he swam across his fish tank to greet me. As I tipped my head, he tipped his, too. His big, soulful, dark eyes reminded me of an old boyfriend, but I digress.
When I gently scratched the outside of his large tank, Oscar pressed his whole belly up against the glass as though he could feel my touch! All the while, pretty little fish flitted about the tank like a colorful ersatz backdrop, but steered clear of the connection between Oscar and me.
It’s worth getting close and personal with fish tanks in waiting rooms. A receptionist told me Oscar is a pufferfish, but rarely puffs up. Maybe one day I might see that, but I’m content that I can flirt with a fish.
I admit to other odd habits. My sock drawer, for example, is sometimes so full, I have trouble closing it. This harks back to a time in the early 1980s when I first moved West and couldn’t find a job. About all I could afford as a pick-me-up was a pair of socks.
I was walking along a street one day when a fellow on the top level of a tall parking garage hung over the edge and shouted down to me.
“Nice socks!” he exclaimed. I looked up and smiled.
Since then, socks continue to lift my spirits. Here’s a tip: When you want a closer look at someone’s true self, forget underwear. Check out his or her sock drawer.
I can laugh at my many unconventional ways, good habits, bad ones, and how some might change as I age. I’m aware of all the joys and absurdities vital to who I am. That’s what I call my authentic self.
Annie Culver developed a knack for unearthing oddball characters and improbable events as a staff writer for various newspapers. In the early 90s, she went to work for websites where she wrote sassy essays aimed at women. In recent years, she morphed into a writer for several universities in the Northwest. She retired in 2016, yet still enjoys freelancing.
How to Be Authentic: Simone de Beauvoir and the Quest for Fulfillment