The other day, my daughter, Kate (or Katherine as she now likes to be called) bounded home from school and belted,
"My favorite people are the ones just like me."
I paused and felt queasy in my gut.
I've always been a fan of difference and have encouraged my children to gravitate toward people and experiences outside of their comfort zone.
Concerned, I began to probe. "What do you mean?"
"I like kids who like art, read books about dragons, eat apples with the skins on and share their lunch."
With a huge sigh of relief, I replied, "Me too."
And then, I began to really think about what she was saying.
I like people who are like me too. My favorite beings on the planet are those that let me be me. The ones who I can curse around, share a glass of wine with on my couch and who tell it like it is with no lessons learned just because life is not always easy, even with a positive spin.
My friends come in every shape and color and some have more years on this earth than I do, but many have less. They are kind and real and not afraid to say that they don't know. They show up even when I mess up. They don't keep score and in general, their cups are more than half full.
Assembling your tribe of misfits gets a whole lot easier when you realize that your energy is finite, there are only 24-hours in the day and the goal of living isn't to impress every last person you know. Rather, the journey is to find your people and then to nurture them.
My people have morphed over the years into a varied band of crazy kind, insanely generous, uber creative, hugely plain, lovely people who are trying just as hard as I am to go to the bathroom by themselves and not warm their cup of coffee 4.8 times in a day.
And so yes, I agree with my 8-year old.
My favorite people in the world are just like me. And honestly, I could give zero fucks about trying to gain admittance into anyone else's tribe. I like mine. We're quirky and weird and deeply lovely.
And most of us like the skin on our own apples.