Myers-Briggs

I think my MBTI had me as a INTJ. Perhaps it was one of those days. I'm damned sure that I was originally extroverted; the favourite family story was of me walking into a crowded restaurant at the age of 5 or so and singing '76 Trombones' at the top of my voice. (It's probably wise that at this point you mutter 'Singing what?')

I used to act; every school play, amateur dramatics, support, bit parts, walk-ons, even lead. My piece de resistance was the lead in a three-act thing based on the David Bowie song--I was Major Tom. The roar of the greasepaint! The smell of the crowd!

And then?

Not as if there was a single point in time. I have always been vaguely resentful of those folk at church who had a Damascene conversion--it seemed so easy; you're driving to the Pick 'n Pay and WALLOP! No more sex, no more drugs, no more rock 'n roll, just praisin' the Lord. Simple. I was disinclined to believe most of the stories; they sounded too much like infomercials to me. 'But wait! There's more! Not only did I get eternal life, but forgiveness too! Why don't you confess TODAY!' Nope, it always seemed more noble to fight one's way to belief--to grapple the demons of doubt. The Voice of God or Visitation is for slackers.

No, it was a process. I could never find anything. It drove my father crazy-mad. He would send me to the kitchen or garage or shops to find 'x' and it was never there. I promise, it was never there, if it had ever existed. Of course he would walk in a find the sodding left-handed thrunge-bracket-extender first time, and reward my effort with either a whack on the head or a few well-chosen words. It became a lot easier to disappear. In the alternative, be deaf. So I took up fishing. Wonderful; sunrise to sunset with a rod, a box of maggots and very occasionally--Oh Happy Day--a new float. I very rarely caught anything, but it didn't matter. Okay, winters were a bastard, but so be it. A small price.
And cycling. Miles and miles of the open road, the hum of the tyres, the rasping breath. New places, alone. Bliss.

I was in the Air Cadets for four or five years. Having been fairly studious, I passed all of the exams and was promoted quickly. Rank! The chance to shout at people, to bend them to my iron will. I was The Lance-Corporal from Hell. Pity that the Will was somewhat, er, malleable.
One fine day I did something that displeased Pater again. Seconds later, a well-aimed thump dislodged my glasses and I had my arm half-way down the kitchen drain trying vainly to save them. Not the most elegant of positions, I'm sure you'll agree. Still, my brother told me recently it was that very picture in his mind when he had Pater by the throat one bright, shining afternoon. Brother Mark was patience-deprived after being in a little-known war for a number of years. All things work together for good, correct? (but, no I didn't believe much) Pater didn't beat anyone after that.

Be that as it may.

So what now? I work in human resources. I should have been a truck driver. I spend my days persuading people to do 'y' or 'z'. Or not, as the case may be. It's exhausting. A colleague of mine whispered to me yesterday that 'Q' was highly pissed-off with me; that I had written an email that was arrogant and presumptious. I do remember using the phrase 'unwise in the extreme'. I did the 'Oh, well. That's just too bad.' thing. Meantime it wrecked my entire day. I made highly indiscreet quip about a posse of female vigilantes which also offended. I thought it was amusing. It seemed not. I was mortified. I find the piece of grafitto, 'Jesus Saves! But Beckham scores off the rebound!' more funny than offensive. Sorry, but I do. It's a brutal world, isn' t it? I find humour helps. I'll try not to be flip in future. Will you still love me tomorrow?

There's nothing I like less than crowds, small talk, and noise. Give me a bottle of Fat Bastard, or any good red, (even a Merlot) something to look at--a mountain, a drawbridge--my pipe, and a few hours of decent conversation, the odd laugh and I'm as happy as a pig in shit.
My love gave me the enormous gift of encouragement to write. It suits the introversion.
So I think I'll go and write something else now. Promise you wan't laugh?