Sunday Scribblings: Eccentricity

Today Sunday Scribblings invites us to write about Eccentricity, and gives us potential guidelines to follow. Like the kid in Summer School, I choose option C: (Remember? He's running out of time and going down the scantron with his (#2) pencil, mumbling C, C, C, C, C...)
c) devise a bunch of eccentricities for yourself, for fun -- either for your old age, or now. Imagine you've inherited a mansion and a fortune, and now it's your job to become an eccentric. You know, like having a pet pot-bellied pig that goes with you everywhere, and always wearing jodhpurs and riding boots (I had a boss that did that, though he owned a restaurant and didn't ride horses; he looked like a male Yoko Ono in riding attire).

I remember reading a book when I was little about a young boy whose grandmother rides a motorcycle and wears purple stretch pants or something hip like that. I asked my own grandma why she didn't dress in more youthful styles; she was, after all, the size of a nine-year old. She told me she would look foolish and I determined, then and there, that when I was her age, I would still feather my bangs and wear super-chic black reboks with blue soles. Yes, I would be an eccentric grandma.
But I no longer think eccentric grannies are the ones who ride Hogs, who display tattoos proudly on their shoulders, who wear styles that look like they've come from the pages of Harper's Bazaar. These grannies are the norm. Eccentric grandmas are the ones who knit and bake cookies.
And where will I fall?
I'll be the old lady who hikes, who writes, who loves madly and deeply, who always stands outside in the rain. Who loves company and solitude, beautiful scenery, the friendship of a dog, who is allergic to cats. Who reads, watches clouds, invites spiders to stay indoors, as long as they promise not to bite. Not eccentric at all. Just still, wholy and completely, me.