Crazy Nines

I’m obsessed with the Enneagram.  I know that on some level, all of the personality typing systems are the same.  Do you like people or do you hate them?  [Depends on the day.]  Do your emotions overflow or do you bottle them?  [Bottle.]  Do you eat your feelings?  [Yes.  Definitely yes.]  But I can never resist a little reinvention.  Like, sometimes I have my gin with an olive, and sometimes with a twist.  Sometimes I want a meat-lover’s pizza, and sometimes I’m feeling a little more omnivorous.  I like having new language and systems for these personality types.  Plus, it’s always fun to have new people to discuss them with.  We got on the topic at the most recent book club meeting, and the more I think about it, the more I’m pretty sure I’ll recommend an Enneagram book the next time it’s my turn to choose.

I think I’m a 9.  Abraham Lincoln was a 9, so it can’t be so bad.  It says I’m a “peacemaker,” which I’m not sure is true, but that I have a basic fear of loss or separation.  I have a vivid memory of following a pair of legs around at the harbor in my hometown, and being VERY startled that they did not attach to my dad’s head.  Via torso, of course.  I also remember the guy who looked down at me seeming very amused, which I took as vicious mocking.  So yeah, we’re on the right track here.  My basic desire, as a 9, is to have something they call “inner stability,” or “peace of mind.”  I’ve heard of these things, but never found them.  I think that might be what I’m attempting with this here outlet.  There’s also a bit in the description of the 9 that suggests I may have several different personae.  While I’m sorry about that, I fear it may be true.

Of course, I immediately want to know what everyone else’s type is.  I’ve moved past “sanguine” and “phlegmatic” (really?  phlegm?) and all that INTJ stuff they made us do in school, and I want you all to give it to me in code.  Numeric code.  I think that a large part of what appeals to me about this particular system (aside from it being another opportunity for me to study ME) is that it seems like a secret language.
Here’s a recap of a recent conversation I had…
J: “I’m a 3.  All of my siblings are 3s.  That’s very unusual.”
Me: “I think I’m a 9.  Or a 4.  Or a 9.”
J: “Ooh, my mom is a 9.  They’re constantly mistyped.”
Me:  “They sound crazy, maybe I’m a 4.”
J: “My dad is an 8.”
Me: “Of course he is.  What else could he be?”

And so on, until we noticed that the rest of our friends were staring at us, totally perplexed.    Once they were filled in, the discussion naturally turned to how to dupe the menfolk into taking the quiz.  It didn’t seem to occur to us that they’d do it willingly, and maybe there’s something to that.  But it seemed to go without saying that it’d be even MORE fun to discuss them if we could apply our Secret Number Code.  Maybe we’ll even give them Spy Names, to add to the secrecy.  “Agent Cargoshorts is totally a 6.”

You want in, don’t you.  You can take a free test here or the full monty ($10) here.  I might disagree with your findings, as I’m pretty sure that one of my multiple personalities makes immutable decisions about other people.  Thanks for being my friend, though.

Freaks!

Seems that a busy work week can put a damper on my intentions to get to this… ironic, given the title of my last post!  Oh well, back on the wagon!

We are both control freaks, but of different colors.  Me, I’m a freak about the details.  He is a freak about “the plan” and something called “all-or-nothing.”  I will explain.

Because of the high incidence of Spandex (R) and exposed skin in our chosen profession, we sometimes (less frequently than in previous years) shave some carbs out of our diets.  For me this means having two pieces of cake instead of three.  Or having sushi, because “it’s only a little bit of rice!”  For him this means eating scrambled eggs and cottage cheese and grilled chicken.  Once he decides not to eat cake or rice or anything that tastes good, he just doesn’t.  End of discussion.  I can’t seem to understand why, after our grilled chicken and cottage cheese, we can’t just have a little dessert!

By about Tuesday (we have Sunday and Monday off, so Tuesday is the beginning of our work week), he is usually asking me what “the plan” is for the weekend.  My response is usually something like this: “…I don’t know…” accompanied by a look that says, “stupid question, stupid answer.”  I’m a really nice person.  The thing is, I’m a recovering over-planner, so whenever possible, I like to go where the wind blows me.  I learned it from my friends, I think it’s lovely.  He thinks it’s disorganized.

However… if we are GOING to make “a plan,” it needs to be The Perfect Plan.  This is where I become a freak.  (Maybe my resistance to planning is a self-preserving attempt to be less freakish?)  We’re going out to lunch?  I have to research the menu online – nothing is more irritating than an unpublished menu! – so that I can make a decision on my order sometime the same day as being seated.  I need to find the perfect patio on a gorgeous day.  And what kind of cocktail will enhance the sunshine?  It’s paralyzing, folks.

A couple weeks ago, after much “What do you want to do?” and “I don’t know, what do you want to do?” he planned a date.  It was wonderful.  I did not criticize the details.  I didn’t even want to!  We went to see The Hangover 2.  He poured Captain Morgan into our Coke.  The movie, and the drink, were gross.  Then we went to dinner.  This was actually pretty exciting, because we never do the dinner-and-a-movie date.  I had a good martini, some thawed calamari, a pretty decent entree, and a great time.

I think we can all see the lesson here: let him handle the details.  I’m going to start doing a LOT of delegating.  As an act of self-therapy, of course!

Oh Look!

I have a short attention span.  This makes me challenging to be around in several ways.

In any given shopping situation, you might find me changing directions (let’s call this “Path B”) without warning or announcement because something caught my eye.  You would then find my husband continuing on Path A for quite some time before noticing my disappearance, hunting around until he finds me – I don’t stick up much above the racks – and reminding me yet again that he would like a little warning when I decide to tear off in the direction of whatever was shiny or polka-dotted.

He loves movies.  We have the largest collection of VHS tapes in the Central Time Zone.  He owns most of his favorite movies and likes to watch them while we cook or eat or do other chores.  Last night, he put on “Road to Perdition” while I cooked and he did some dishes.  About every 2 minutes, I said something like, “Who’s that guy” or, “What are they doing?” or, “Are they gangsters??”  This, apparently, was irritating.  I’ve been known to ask the same questions during an episode of Law & Order.  Supposedly, nobody else in the world has trouble following the plot of Law & Order.

Our house is too big.  We have about 2500 square feet.  My last place was about 1000 square feet, and I was only responsible for half of it.  Have you ever tried to clean 2500 square feet?  There’s SO MUCH TO DO that it’s hard to stay on one task for very long.  No, seriously.  You’re cleaning your office, and then your mind wanders to all the other things that need to be done.  There’s that box in the basement waiting to be sorted (does that mean emptied and spread around a 12-foot radius for anyone else?), or maybe the counters in the bathroom need to be wiped down.  Or maybe there’s a pair of socks that didn’t make it into the sock drawer, and I can NOT finish what I’m doing until one or three of those other tasks are complete.  Begin distraction task, repeat distraction.  This seems like a good time to mention that my mother-in-law’s house is Very Clean.

I try to put a positive spin on things.  I’m a silver lining kind of girl.  I’m trying to sell him on this silver lining being my endless curiosity, or my interest in all kinds of things that could bring richness and texture to our lives, but I’m pretty sure he just sees several pairs of half-made earrings, or the 12-foot spread of junk that at least used to be contained in a box.  He may be infinitely patient with me, but at least all my socks make it into the sock drawer.