So here I am at my computer, temporarily paralysed because the sanctity of my to-do list has been corrupted by a request from Helpdesk Man, and it occurs to me that this might be an appropriate moment to address the issue of being a vanity Aspie.
Simply put, vanity Aspies are those lucky individuals who have a dim third-cousinship to autism. We flirt with the black-T-shirted line between neurotypicality and government subsidies. We are considered only a Bit Funny by the hoi polloi, while those in the know nod their heads wisely and lend us The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time. We’re the sort of people who find their tranquillity disturbed by untimely additions to an already-printed to-do list, but who have the presence of mind to come online and tell you about it calmly instead of flapping a dishtowel. (Not that I have anything against flapping dishtowels, for the record. Some of my best friends flap dishtowels. Well, that’s not exactly true. Most of my friends are only at the vanity Aspie level themselves, or at most genuine Aspie. Some of my sister’s friends flap dishtowels. She’s autistic. So are they. Actually I don’t think she’s seen the friend of whom I’m thinking for years, but that’s OK, because she’s autistic. I hope this is all becoming clear.)
In short, we are the sort of people who could probably, if we loaded up on gluten and wore our Ren Faire capelets, trot down to an analyst and get ourselves a diagnosis. But it would be a vanity diagnosis… a diploma-mill type of deal, useful for waving in relative’s faces when they invited us to social functions, but not truly earned with the sweat of our behaviorally-modified brows. Plus, if we had the misfortune to pick an analyst who was into Firefly, he might not think we were Aspie at all; just cool. Which, naturally, we are. Make no mistake; neurotypicality is so last season. And when the revolution comes, we’ll be ones clinging to our Aspie and autistic kinfolk, pleading “See? We were one of you all along“.