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March 4, 2012 | by  | in Opinion |
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Mulled Whine with H.G. Beattie


Early last year, I took the Myers-Briggs personality test. The link’s at the bottom. As a complete ignorant, I’d previously thought that type of stuff was only taken seriously in IBM branches that had lost their economies of scale. The taking of the test was the first prong of a Concerted Effort on part of a psychologist (incentive: monetary, courtesy of anxious parents) to get me enthusiastic about myself. At the time, I wasn’t. I’m only vaguely mental. It’s endearing. And hereditary, so your wife hunt ends here.

I’ve no idea how much money changed hands, and I’m aware of the insensitivity of my crude critique of psychology. However, as a first prong this was ruthlessly efficient. Being fed information sanctioned by the old and bearded is reassuring. I got told that I’m an INTJ. I for introvert. The other letters mean stuff too: look them up, I’ve got a word count. All together, they basically confirmed my suspicion that being a twenty-year-old female with the mindset of a forty-year-old man doesn’t pull.

Carl Jung—woefully beardless—defined introversion as an “attitude-type characterized by orientation in life through subjective psychic contents”. Thanks for getting the ball rolling, bucko, but in the Queen’s ‘glish I am “wholly or predominantly concerned with and interested in [my] own mental life.” (Selfishness sanctioned by boffins, result). Learning about oneself in an elementary psychological context can be quite enlightening. You’ll pick up on stuff and say “Lawks a mercy, (because this is my hypothetical, not yours)—that sounds like me.” As with horoscopes, selective hearing can only be a good thing. Feel free to ignore the “needs to face reality and acknowledge others” side of yourself in favour of its “individualistic and determined” counterpart. I know I have.

This discovery has heralded some srs excitement for me. The notion that I prefer substantial to frequent interaction means that I can violate people with heart-to-hearts and then not see them for six months. Not particularly sentimental but rather good for timing haircuts. Most importantly, I now have a sounder excuse than the “I’ve had work all day/I’ve got work in the morning/Look I’m just not a night person/YOU DON’T KNOW ME” medley that I’ve had on repeat since I was seventeen.

Essentially, while you’re at parties, I’m at home and listening to an Aerosmith cover (by Macy Gray—credibility downgrade ahoy.) Lady looks like a dude, but the groovathon is intensity in ten cities. And all of this is fine, because I’m allowed to dig uninterrupted reflection. In a moment of interrupted reflection last week, my David-Attenborough-but-with-a-Mooncup flatmate told me to mention the six-inch clitoris of the red spotted hyena, which is a Fact Worth Knowing. Someone at Subway will shortly be receiving a better work story.


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