I’m so not talking about belly buttons. Though this weekend I taught Zach that trick of sticking his finger in it and then smelling. Why? Because I often speak before I think, and obviously I underestimated the grossy-humor quotient of a little boy with a stinky belly button.
What I am talking about is being an introvert that lives with 2.5 extroverts. I say 2.5–the jury’s still out with E– he’s too young still.
Who’s laughing at me? I hear laughing. Just because I’m the opposite of shy, and I talk a lot doesn’t make me an extrovert. I know, I know— I was surprised when a facebook quiz told me, too. Though it was a great reminder to always remember the definition versus connotation of words before using those words as descriptors.
Any-who, an introvert is a person who recharges alone and has the life sucked out of them, vampire-style, when around other people. An extrovert is a person who digs being out in the world, among the masses, doing the whole among-the-masses thing. Very few people are exclusively one or the other, and I imagine we all kind of flip flop around to a certain degree.
There is much better information at the official website, if you are interested.
Yeah, you know what? People fucking exhaust me. Large groups of folks– even those I care about– make my head go all SNAP, CRACKLE, POP until I’m walking around with my angry face (e.g., what my face looks like when I’m concentrating), scaring my Amelia Bedelia-esque 4 year old.
People exhaust me because I notice all of them– even when I’m trying not to pay attention, even when I’m medicated for the express purpose of blocking stimuli, even when I just want to get a cup of coffee and read the paper at a coffee shop. My husband, extrovert that he is, can read a book in a noisy public place, while I’m just reading the same paragraph over and over again. That JB happens to be the extrovert is hilarious, since he’s really quiet and shy, to the point of sometimes (erroneously) seeming snobby.
I dance around all giddy with the thought of being Alone in My Home. As a matter of fact, being alone in my home is one of things I need, like the flowers need the rain (yes, I know this is a corny line from a cornier song– I did that all on-purposeful and stuff). It’s also the one thing, since kids, that I absolutely, hardly ever get to enjoy. I had so much fun yesterday, scraping wallpaper, because the three of them weren’t here and I could listen to my Death Row’s Greatest Hits CD in peace.
It would be funny, if it wasn’t so hard for us all to mesh together sometimes. I can’t decide about Elliot yet. He’s either like me, or he’s 2. I’ll get back to you on him.
I tried to explain all of this to Zach, who doesn’t get how I could possibly be okay locked–ALONE–in the bedroom, or why the thought of going to certain places on the weekends makes me want to gouge out my eyeballs.
But mom, I love people– ALL people. How can you not like people? Mom, I just love you so much. I want to be with you all of the time. Hey Mom, can you just open the door. M–ooommmm—-yyyy…..
I get reminded, every day, that relationships are hard. Even those between Big People and Small People. Those crazy Small People, with their own personalities, needs and wants. Us crazy Big People, who would pay small fortunes for a consistent period of time where they could be completely, blissfully alone.