According to a free online personality test, I am an introvert. An ISFP to be specific. Even though the site states multiple times that none of the sixteen possible types are better or worse than another, I am not happy with ISFP, so I will be taking other free tests until I achieve the desired result. I would prefer to be an intuitive, thinking, judging extrovert. Basically, I still want to be me, but just the exact opposite.
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Welp, I just took two more tests, and I’m still an ISFP.
My problem is that I’m too honest. After an extensive internet search on ways to cheat the Myers-Briggs test, I distilled my notes into one Super Tip: pick the opposite answer. It seemed easy at first because my Super Tip was only one action item, but some of these tests have sixty questions. I guess I’m too wonderful of a person to lie sixty times in a row.
The Introvert vs. Extrovert typification is most important to me because I’ve always considered myself an extrovert. I mean, yes, I:
1. Become extremely shy in larger social settings and many (MANY) people often mistake it as being bitchy and aloof.
2. Like being with just a few close friends or alone.
3. Need time to recharge if I’ve spent the day interacting with others.
4. Go to the bathroom a lot when I am out and stay way too long in there because I enjoy the silence interrupted only by an occasional flush.
5. Avoid eye contact because yes, I
5b. Am shitty at small talk.
6. Start feeling lightheaded on Monday if I am leaving for a conference on Friday.
Now that all of these seemingly unrelated factors are in one list, I guess it’s pretty obvious that I’m an introvert. In my defense, I said I was wonderful, not all-knowing.
Maybe I wanted to be an extrovert so badly that somewhere along the way, I started believing my own bullshit. The same experience happened with my height recently. I’d never considered myself a person of vertical disadvantage until I stood next to some sixth graders. What the fuck are kids eating these days?
The one person who makes me feel completely at ease is Harv. That’s why I call him five times a day at work. Sometimes, the calls are necessary and important, but most of the time (like 99.9999%), it’s a short chat on topics I find most interesting at that moment- rap music, Tom Ford lipsticks, clothing care and moth prevention…I hate those fiber-destroying motherfuckers.
Harv has been especially busy these past few months. We don’t talk as much, but I often dial his number out of habit. I absentmindedly called him after taking the third personality test and a few minutes into our chat, I heard several voices in the background. He was on a conference call, but he told me to “keep going” with my story so I did. Less than a minute later, I heard more voices. He was on a conference call, people were in his office waiting for him, and he was on another phone with me. I offered to hang up, but he said, “No, it’s okay, I want you to hear about your day.”
I think….I think I don’t really care if I’m an ISFP. I guess I had to start with all of those words first because what I really wanted to talk about makes me nervous. It really blows my mind that Harv loves me at all. I can’t believe that someone so special thinks that I’m special and worthwhile too. He didn’t have to love me and it’s hard to love me, but he does it anyway. Not just because he’s a good person (he is) and not just because he has a lot of patience (he does), but because for him, since the age of 17, I was different and special and he never forgot me.
His love has allowed me to heal in ways I can’t verbalize quite yet, and I finally feel like I can accept myself just as I am because he reminds me all of the time that I’m a good person too and I’m going to be all right.
That’s what I wanted to say all along- I am awed by my husband’s love. Also, I hope he loves me enough to help me cheat on some online tests tonight.
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So much not-seen-on-this-blog shit on these 3. Forrealz.
P.S. Grand Taxonomy of Rap Names Print WINNER: Rommy Delgado Coleman. Please email me at flourishinprogress at gmail with your mailing address.
