One of my college boyfriends nicknamed me Fruit Snack, and I nicknamed him Crazy, which begs the question: Who’s crazier–the crazy person, or the one who loves a crazy person?
I was thinking about that as I watched King of Hearts yesterday. (It’s a silly old French movie that my mom loves.) The movie is supposed to make you think about the absurdity of war and whether the crazy ones are the soldiers or the escaped mental patients. These people who are legitimately nuts don’t seem crazy to each other, of course, and eventually the main character (who isn’t technically crazy) decides to remain among the insane rather than return to the real world.
It made me think about all of the times I’ve called people crazy. As that college boyfriend knew (I hope), it was always a term of endearment, even when expressed out of exasperation. I always say, “You’re crazy!” with a slight hint of a smile (though it sometimes only shows up in my mind), even if the crazy person is frustrating me with his craziness. Is that because I admire people who are crazy for refusing to conform to the rules of real life? Or is it because I identify with the crazy people?
Either way, I choose to associate myself with crazy, and that in itself is crazy.
But it’s much more fun to be crazy, and, as the people in King of Hearts knew, it’s much better to be confined with your own craziness than to be forced to live with other people’s idea of sanity.