Despite everything I’ve read -- and even after I’ve taken that Jungian test that has proven otherwise -- people continually accuse me of having a Type A personality.
I don’t know exactly when (or why) the two cardiologists Friedman and Roseman, decided that every person has either a Type A or a Type B personality, but ever since I’ve been aware of such -- and even though I admit that I don’t understand all I know about it -- I’ve considered myself to possess Type B. As I understand it, Type B personalities are laid back (which I consider myself to be), easy going (again, which I consider myself to be), and slow to draw conclusions without all the facts, (which I am). But of course, we don’t see ourselves as others see us … and aren’t we all glad about that.
On the other hand, those Type A personalities are perfectionists (which I’m not) and much more hyper. As a matter of fact, Type A personalities are considered high risks for heart attacks. Which, of course, might explain the fact that two cardiologists developed this idea in the first place. Guess I’d better not go there, though, since the fact that I had four by-passes a few years back might completely destroy my previous arguments.
Apparently, personality traits are not inherited because, based on what I’m reading these days, if there’s any truth to to all this stuff in the first place, I think I’m pretty much convinced that both my parents were Type A’s. Mom kept busy from the time her feet hit the floor in the morning until she went to bed at night. Right off, one might think that being the wife of a coal miner and having to raise a houseful of children, she had little choice in the matter. But I don’t know so much about that. I’ve even seen her spend 15 or 20 minutes at a time sweeping the yard. Anywhere there was a bare spot in the grass, like under the willow in the corner where I’d play with my toy dump truck, fell victim to her broom a couple of times a week.
Same with Dad. I don’t think I ever saw him just sit and relax, maybe read the paper or a book, except on Saturday afternoon when he’d take time to read his Bible and study his Sunday School lesson when he was preparing to teach an adult class the next day.
Anyway, in all the times I’ve been called a Type A, it has been because of my impatience. To that, I say that even Type B’s have a right to become a tad aggravated when someone just pokes around when you’re in a hurry for something. Like you’re running a bit late for work and stop to pump yourself some gas. You walk in to pay, correct amount in hand, and some wanna-be-lottery winner stands and scratches his ten scratch-offs, then waits for his three dollar pay off. He walks away a winner, happy to have turned his ten dollar investment into three dollars cash, and you end up ten minutes late for work. I think even Type B’s could be forgiven for that.
So, until I’m proven otherwise, I think I’ll continue to consider myself Type B. Afterall, I grew up in the fifties and that’s what Elvis was.