izzy and her sleepless nights.

Dang izzy, takin up half my dash! Ever heard of a read more insert thing?

I JUST HAVE A LOT OF FEELINGS. :(

#aliarico

16 hours ago on May 28, 2012 at 11:41pm

Who knew being a wench would change your life? (A sentimental spiel)

While working at Scarborough Faire this weekend, I remembered just why I fell so in love with this place in the first place.

It changed my life.

I started working there as I was slowly navigating through the worst rough patch of my life. It was at the end of my senior year of high school. I had finally left a terrible, long, emotionally-abusive relationship. I resolved to reinvent myself, to leave every sad thing in the past, and just begin again. I went out and did drastic things like join the spirit squad and take over as the editor-in-chief of my newspaper. I filled my senior year report card with nothing but A’s, a feat I had not accomplished since the eighth grade. I ended up in the top 6% of my graduating class. I got into every college I applied to. Applying to Harvard even crossed my mind for a fleeting second. I repaired every relationship I had broken for the sake of keeping that old relationship afloat. In short, I had taken it upon my own hands to change my whole life.

Finally, finally, towards the end of my senior year, I began to feel like my old, carefree self again. Just like I did before the concept of love even existed in my life. I felt relatively happy and content with my life, something I could not have said in a very, very long time- but there was something missing. I just didn’t know what.

When my friend asked me if I wanted to take her spot at the local Medieval fair as the root beer wench that summer, I leaped at the chance. Why not? It was just one more way to reinvent myself. I was weird enough to fit in anyways.

I interviewed and got the job. Before my first day of work, I had never experienced the famous faire. It was definitely a shock to see how every person became whatevergreat knight or warrior, king, or fictional character they were costumed as. I met myriads of King Henry the VIII’s, Gandalfs, Monty Pythons and Musketeers. This was a place, I soon learned, where reality was left at the door- and most importantly, where what you looked like didn’t matter. Everybody at the faire was there for a good time, and the more outlandish or unique you looked, the better.

I made my best makeshift wench costume and took on my role as the root beer wench. At first I was terrified. We have no electronic cash registers at the faire, and I’m horrible at math, so I thought I was going to suck at my job and get yelled at by all these thirsty and medievally-clad merrymakers.

As soon as I started, though, I found out this was not the case. The people there were incredibly kind, accepting, and uplifting. Every one of them found something lovely to say to me every single day. A lot of people would stop by just to tell me that they enjoyed my smile and how I looked so happy to be there. The truth was that I didn’t just look happy, I was very, very happy. Thanks to help of these strange strangers, I began to believe in myself again. Every kind sentiment, as insignificant as it might have been to any of them, made me feel beautiful. Never in my life had I had so many people doting on me, telling me how beautiful I was or just how unique I was- and for them, this “unique” wasn’t bad, like it was for me growing up. It made me more beautiful to them, they told me.

In a gargantuan way, these people helped me see my own beauty- something that before the faire I had never, ever considered. Beautiful had never been the word to describe me. According to some people, I was the ugly duckling dating the hot high school jock- nothing more. I let this persona consume me until eventually I thought nothing of myself and everything of him.

By the time the faire ended, this perception had changed completely. I had started the faire as a shy girl serving root beer, and I closed the faire smiling, greeting regular faire visitors as old friends with my crappy Ye Olde English accent.

I’m getting pretty emotional as I write this. As I prepared to start my first year of college, I actually felt confident. I felt just as good as anybody else. And I attribute it completely to these folks that others might think weird or crazy. They helped me finally see my worth.

I only worked Scarborough for two days this year, and before that it had been 2 years since I had last worked the faire. I was instantly greeted like an old friend by all the familiar faces that still frequented the grounds. I was still their “pretty little gypsy”, and they still swung by my booth just to tell me that I was still beautiful- nothing more.

Many may ask why it means so much to me to get called beautiful, why I place so much importance on it. Well, to someone to whom getting called beautiful was a rarity, it meant the world. And even now, when it’s not too much of a rarity sometimes, it still means the world to me. These quirky and strange people embraced me and my flaws, and I embraced them.

For every “What a lovely wench ye are! Now serve me my steak!” my day got a little brighter as I replied “Yes my lord! Your steak shall be ready in no time!”

Thank you from the bottom of my heart to every knight, king, queen, knave, street performer, jester, wizard, jedi, elf, pirate and hobbit that swung by my booth and gave me kind words when I, unbeknownst to them, needed to hear them the most.

Thank you for making me feel like a million medieval pence/coins/pounds/other relevant medieval currency.

You changed my life.

16 hours ago on May 28, 2012 at 11:31pm

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