There was a time when writing an ‘I’m Weird Because‘ post was something I looked forward to, but it feels different now. The last post on the blog was in April this year. From writing a post almost every other day when I started, to a weekly post later and then to hardly any post these days, so much has changed. Blogging has transformed so much. These days dancing on Instagram is called blogging. I feel the joy has been sucked out of something good by our rapidly deteriorating attention spans and our interest in frivolity. When nobody is there to read, why would you write? Still, I’m trying to make an effort today, albeit forced. If nothing else, at least the tradition of the yearly post will continue. Or, it will be the last few before I decide to shut down the blog. You never know.

So, what is it that makes me weird? Well, I think everything about me. My sister believes I was born weird. I don’t think she is wrong. Well, without beating around the bush, let me tell you what, in my view, makes me peculiar.

I’m Weird because

I find people learning how to dress up from influencers absolutely ridiculous. Your style is your style. Why would you need someone to tell you what you should wear and how?

I feel trapped when invited anywhere. I mean, don’t get me wrong. Man is a social animal and all that, but I’m not that man. I don’t even enjoy calls or WhatsApp conversations because I don’t know what to say. I want to be left alone. An occasional like or smiling emoji is as much conversation as I can handle without breaking into a sweat. Yes. It’s not you, it’s me. I’m weird.

When food bloggers record themselves eating the food they cooked, it puts me off. I don’t find it appealing at all. Don’t do that. We know food is for eating, you don’t need to show it.

I have been a mother for 6 odd years, and I still don’t know what conversations to have with fellow mothers. Seriously, I feel like there is something wrong with my internal wiring. Like I said, peculiar!

I love food. It’s food when I’m happy and food when I’m sad. And if you invite me and don’t feed me well, I’ll judge you for the rest of my life. Well, it could just be the Bengali in me, but it is what it is.

I never comment on how thin or fat someone is when I meet them. It doesn’t even come to my notice. But when someone does that to me or talks about my double chin or my not-so-flat- tummy, I find them devoid of basic manners and put them on my mental ‘moron’ list. There I said it.

I judge people when they tell me Bollywood is a type of dance. Nope. It isn’t. If it isn’t classical, I don’t even consider you a serious dancer, forget about being good.

I don’t like sharing my books. I work really hard to be able to have the ability to buy whatever book I want when I want. If you can afford to buy books and want to read, get your own books.

I think newsletters are overrated. What are you going to tell me that isn’t already out there?

Now that I’m no longer a new mother, I feel every new mother feels that nobody became a mother before her and all her woes are new. I was that mother not so long ago, and I want to tell my past self to stop pretending that I’m the first one to experience the anguish and joys of motherhood.

I never bore people by talking incessantly about my kid, and I don’t like it when someone does that with me. We can all agree to love our own kids without trying to make someone else like our kids. Makes sense?

As I said, I’m strange. I think that’s enough weirdness for this year. I guess a mixture of cold, cough, throat pain and a house in disarray due to it being re-painted has made my internal snarkiness come out a bit more here. And why not? Why does the world get to say whatever it wants and not I?

Well, that’s it for today. If anyone ever reads this, let me know if you are weird too.