The New York Times recently published an article encouraging those of a certain age to embrace their inner weirdo. They explained it in terms of not being afraid to find your authentic self and not worrying about what other people think. In my opinion, it’s not just a matter of finding your authentic self and embracing what’s weird about you. Nor is it tied to not caring what other people think, though those are all good reasons to explore your own weirdness.

To me, it seems that the NYT is redefining “weird.” When you reach that certain age, you no longer think of “weird” as a pejorative. You either accept it as a fact of life or wear it as a badge of honor. At a certain point in life, you’re allowed to be weird, and it’s a shame if you don’t give in to it. When a woman reaches old age, she tends to become invisible. People’s eyes slide right over her. And many old women make themselves smaller because of it. Being weird is a way to fight back.

I didn’t wait until I reached the age I am now. I’ve always been weird. I was a weird kid. Then I was a weird teen. I was a weird collegian. I was a weird adult. In point of fact, I’m still weird, even at my advanced age.

Call me goofy, silly, or peculiar. Strange. Unusual. Bonkers. Bizarre. Odd. Outré. Crazy. It won’t be anything I haven’t been called before (well, maybe not outré). I won’t mind. In fact, I own it. My friends are weird. My husband is weird. Even our cats are weird. (We had one that would play fetch, and another that liked to throw toothpicks across the room. But I digress.)

So, what have I done to merit the description of weird? Well, there was the time my husband and I cooked naked while doing Julia Child impressions. The only rule: no deep frying. There were times I ate ruffled potato chips with cream cheese and M&Ms. I still quote Star Trek, Star Wars, and The Pirates of Penzance.

My sister thought I was weird when I made lasagna or ratatouille or ordered in sushi for Thanksgiving. I once was able to use the old line, “If I could walk that way, I wouldn’t need a knee replacement.”

I have a weird t-shirt collection, and I wear them in public. (Once, Dan and I went to the bank, both wearing t-shirts with pictures of winged cats on them. The teller said, “I know I’m going to regret this, but what are those t-shirts about?” I replied, “On weekends, we go to the park and fly radio-controlled cats.” But I digress again.)

I have bacon earrings and a sushi necklace. I have earrings of planet Earth, and when I wear them, I like to shake my head violently and cry, “Earthquake!” I had a purse shaped like an armadillo and named her Erma. Many people responded to the weirdness, and Erma sparked many interesting conversations.

I guess all this hearkens back to Jenny Joseph’s poem “Warning.” You know the one: “When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple….” The one that inspired the Red Hat Society.

I may not wear purple with a red hat. I prefer to wear a Deadpool t-shirt and bacon earrings. But I won’t give up my weird or go gentle into invisibility. I don’t think I could, even if I wanted to. I have so much practice being weird.