I often credit my wife for being the most tolerant woman alive, willing to put up with my alternative views on the world, my utter lack of conformity and my unwillingness to submit to cultural and social graces that I do not find logical or applicable. I am stunned with her unquestioning acceptance of someone as potentially annoying as me.
Then I realized, just the other day, that she is just as much of a nonconformist as me.
It’s true. Though her friends and family obviously love her, Elysha is unlike them in a variety of ways:
She’s one of the only members of the family to not marry a fellow Jew, and she almost exclusively dated non-Jewish men throughout her lifetime.
She was known for having the most eclectic group of friends in high school, including a guy who went by the name Chainsaw. Her father has told me on more than one occasion that she would bring home the oddest collection of human beings that he’d ever seen. She was friendly with theater geeks, musicians, jocks and everyone in between.
She once wore tinfoil in her hair for a day in middle school, thinking it looked good.
She despises the phone with a hatred normally reserved for hermits.
She does not enjoy shopping and often feels guilty about spending money.
Her musical taste ranges from Led Zeppelin to Lyle Lovett to the Buffy the Vampire Slayer soundtrack.
She may like Battlestar Galactica more than me.
She does not read the tabloids, prefers her laptop to the television, does not watch American Idol or any other reality program, and refuses to read any baby book that denotes recommended milestones (and most baby books in general).
I could go on and on, but suffice it to say that she is a nonconformist. She is unlike any other woman I have ever known.
And to think it took me this long to figure this out.
