satirical column on "type" personalities.
|I took an online personality test the other day only to find out that I am what would be classified as a “Type A” personality.
After reading the sugarcoated first two sentences about my proficiency in the art of coloring inside the lines, the truth hit: I’m going to die at age twenty-three in a small, neatly-organized laundry room after slipping on the missing sock that I will be looking for (because one sock is no good without the other). DUH!
The only thing that bothered me about this description was the letter association. “Type A”…where the heck did that come from? So now it’s not enough to pick on the dead twenty-three-year-olds, now we have to pick on the straight “A” kids too. The letter “A” dominates the alphabet. Not only is it the first letter, it’s also the highest grading mark, one of the most commonly used words, and NOW it’s a personality type, or disorder (depending on how you feel about that death sentence). Why not type “Z” or “Q” or maybe even “S” for Sarah, of course.
After a while I started to get worried. These nuts can’t possibly be serious, can they? Am I really going to misplace my sock? ARE YOU SERIOUS!?! Not only is my sock drawer color-coordinated, it also has a digital sock counter (counting only pairs) and beeps vigorously when the wrong number of socks are in the drawer. This is necessary for my sanity. By now it should be obvious why losing one of my socks is almost unfathomable -- unless some “Type F” person stole it out of the laundry basin. Those “Type F” kids wouldn’t know organization if it smacked them in the face (and that is what it would take).
I almost cried, praying to God that it wouldn’t be my “Monday” socks (the pink ones with the asymmetrical blue polka dots). I don’t function well without them.
I sat down to dinner with my family the other night and the disgusting sights I witnessed appalled me. Not only was my sister, Becca, chewing with her mouth open (allowing me to see an array of masticated delicacies) but her mashed potatoes were overwhelming her plate. The gravy mudslide was drowning them and starting to suffocate the green peas while the macaroni scooted away in horror. WHAT WAS SHE THINKING!? She OBVIOUSLY doesn’t know that mashed potatoes+ green peas= POISON. I like to keep my plate very segregated; I even resort to using my sectioned Winnie-the-Pooh plate. What can I say? My parents raised me right. I don’t think they realize yet that Becca has fallen victim to the clutches of the “Type M” folk (but that’s probably because they’re a pair of “Type Ds”).
My death sentence also told me that I would die alone (these people really know how to flatter a girl). Apparently “Type A” people have a hard time finding a suitable relationship because of their high expectations. Well, sorry pal, but I don’t think that an educated, heir of a million dollar CEO, who doesn’t chew with his mouth open, can keep his plate fairly segregated, and never loses socks is too much to ask…but that’s just me.
JUST KIDDING. But maybe my expectations are too high. Just last night I had a date with a boy who, get this, offered me some M&M’s. This would have been fine, I like chocolate just as much as the next person (even though I personally prefer red jelly beans or gummy bears, but that’s beside the point) if he had not stuck his germ-infested, filth crawling, disgusting, hand (covered with GOD-only-knows-what) into the bag. Does anyone else find this repulsive? I could have caught pneumonia and died (I would have preceded my death sentence by seven years, and since “Type A” people are “over-achievers” it would have actually been an accomplishment, but that’s beside the point).
I sat at my computer for at least an hour just reading and re-reading; the discoveries were abounding. Then it hit: There was a typo. “Type A” IS supposed to be “Type S” for Sarah, of course.