An Introvert's Conundrum

For the longest time, I wasn’t sure where I fell on the extrovert/introvert scale.  In fact, I once took the Myers Briggs test and landed pretty much on the fence in the E/I section, so even that attempt to figure it out didn’t help.  I can’t recall the exact questions on that test, but I can tell you this:  I have good social skills; I am (I believe) an entertaining and thoughtful conversationalist; and I like people.  I also can tell you this:  I enjoy my own company and don’t need constant socializing. 

Fortunately, I have a friend who is an expert in communications and conflict resolution, so her knowledge of personality types goes way beyond the Myers Briggs testing language.  Several years ago, when I shared my E/I dilemma with her, she responded with a question.  “Where do you get your energy?” she asked.  “From being alone or from being with other people?”

“Oh my God!” I replied quickly (no thought required), “From being alone!”

And thus, I was deemed an introvert.

And that totally works for me.

In fact, once I’d learned the formula, I also came to acknowledge that when I make social plans, I need to remember what could drain my energy.  I need to space apart my social plans and avoid over-committing.  If I line up too many get-togethers, I will rebel.  I will end up cancelling some of them and/or I will be cranky company at a time when I’d be better off alone.

I’m glad I know this about myself.  I’m glad I’m not socializing for socializing’s sake, thinking that if I don’t, there’s something wrong with me.

That goes for dating and relationships, too.  There really is nothing worse than “feeling that you must.”

…A dear friend came over recently, and we noshed on the types of Trader Joe’s foods you only buy if someone will share them with you.  As we caught up, she shared with me the story of several of her friends whom she’d grouped together as “Bad Boyfriend Recidivists.”  When she’d told me about their current situations, I was struck by how absurdly they were involved in their respective dating/relationship games.  They were actively participating in some shit that was riddled (I mean, riddled!) with red flags.

Why?

I can’t answer that for the women in question, but the conversation led me to share two thoughts with my friend.

First, I’m glad I was once married.  Sure, it didn’t take, but it happened, so I have that behind me, and maybe that history prevents some desperation I might otherwise feel. 

Second, I’m glad I am okay being alone.

I then shared with my friend a line from the poet May Sarton.  I should tell you that I only know of this line because I heard it on NPR.  (I’ve never really taken to poetry, and I’d not previously heard of May Sarton.) 

Regardless, the line is this:  “Loneliness is the poverty of the self; solitude is the richness of self.”

(At least, that’s the wording I found just now through a quick Google search.)

So, I guess I’ve got a rich self.  Because for all the time I spend alone, I do not feel lonely.

Still, though, there’s the conundrum.  While I am quite comfortable being alone, I know that the company of another introvert would give me a joy I can’t get on my own.

I have to remind myself of the good times I’ve had sharing occasional space with a man who appreciates his own solitude.  A man who craves quiet but also has good social skills.  Who is an entertaining and thoughtful conversationalist.  Who likes people.

… Sorry, I didn’t mean for this to read like a profile on match dot com, but if you know of anyone in the L.A. area… 

Never mind.  He probably would rather be alone.

Mort: I Know You're Out There Somewhere – Part I

A NOTE BEFORE READING: Today’s post and the three Thursday posts that will follow come from a memoir project: five Catalysts and five Constants. The project’s essays are all quite a bit longer than my usual posts, so I am going to share this one in four installments.

Between our junior and senior years of college, my friend Robin and I discovered the bench. It was in a great locale. Private – but in the middle of everything. Safe – but within steps of danger. Kind of like each of us.

The bench was on the Upper West Side. Close to school, close to where we each lived. It was on the relatively wide median of “land” that separated the northbound Broadway traffic from that heading south. The cross-street was 113th, which made it conveniently close to the Yum-Yum ice cream shop, where we each had zeroed in on our favorite frozen treats.

We would end up on that bench many a night that summer, enjoying the late, late night air, enjoying our Yum-Yum purchases, anxious to talk further about the subject that was foremost on our minds: Boys. (Guys.) ( Men.)

Robin always seemed so much more versed in this arena. She definitely had more experience. And she appeared, to me, to have more confidence, too. She dressed sexily – in mini-skirts and heels. She spent time on her hair. And she seemed to flirt with ease. I, on the other hand, always was more the comfort-seeker when it came to such matters. My clothes generally flow. My shoes rarely change my height much. If I can't “do” my hair in two minutes, then it's the wrong style for me. And while I enjoy titillating conversation, I enjoy it most with people I know – well.

Regardless of those differences, Robin and I had become close. We would grow along together for several years. And for several summers, we would return to the bench. We would eat our frozen treats and explore the mysteries of life – which were, particularly in those years, all about our lives.

+++

During the summer of 1981, I was job-hopping as a waitress, trying to find a restaurant where I could hang my apron and then focus on other, more creative things. Robin, who also had donned an apron recently, was taking a break from that aerobic career to attend journalism school. Doug was living with her then, which added a new topic to our girl talk.

One night on the bench, we heard a mournful sound. It was coming from the sidewalk across the street. We looked east to trace its source and saw a grey tabby cat begin to head toward us. Sauntering as he bellowed, he safely made his way across the three lanes of northbound traffic. And although we had cheered him on, he didn't immediately jump into either of our outstretched sets of arms. Rather, he made a bee-line for the shrubbery that was behind the bench. (He was a cat, after all.)

Was he afraid or just being shy? Regardless, there was no way we would leave him in the traffic's median. There was no way we would leave him to tempt the fate of another three lanes of Broadway. He had made it thus far, so the least we could do was make sure we got him to safety. Surely, the person who had put the flea collar around his neck would appreciate our efforts.

Yes, this cat was wearing a flea collar, which – in Robin's and my vernacular – meant one thing: he was not available (as it were). He was going to be a “one-night stand.” The question then became: which one of us was going to take him home?

Robin and I each already had a single cat at home. But, in addition to that, Robin had her boyfriend, Doug, and they had their boa constrictor, whom they cleverly called “Snakey.” She knew it would be dicey to walk home with this new rescued cat. And while I wasn't particularly looking to provide refuge for a second cat (I knew that the cleverly-named Kitty, with her Siamese roots, had no desire to share me), I figured I could at least give this wanderer a place for the night. I'd post signs the next day. Surely, the person who put the flea collar around his neck would be looking for him...

And so, in a rare instance in Robin's and my friendship, I was the one who took the guy home. And, in a rare instance in my life generally, it turned into a long-term relationship. I guess whoever put on that flea collar simply didn't care. If they had, they would have looked for the signs – the ones I posted the next day, all over the neighborhood surrounding 113th Street and Broadway.

+++

I must admit, though, it also took me a while to see the signs. It took me a while to accept that this cat was mine. For the longest time, I was hesitant even to name him. But, one day – three or four weeks into our relationship – he weaved his way into the kitchen on 108th Street, and I heard myself say, “Hello, Mort.”

I didn't know where the name had come from, but it seemed right. And it stuck. Later, I would notice the tag in my black wrap-around waitressing skirt. The tag showed a jungle cat in full-leap mode. The tag said “Mr. Mort.”

So, I had named him, but still, was he mine?

Mort would leave the apartment often, exiting by way of my bedroom window, which happened to lead to the fire escape. Sometimes, he would be gone for a few days, and I would just assume that he had gone home.

One evening, after he had been gone for a particularly long stretch, the building's night doorman appeared at my apartment door. He was holding a very dirty Mort. “Is this your cat?” he said.

“Well... I guess.”

I brought him inside and gave him a jump start on the bath that he would ultimately self-administer.

+++

Another time, I came home in the late afternoon, returning from my waitressing shift. My roommate was sitting in the living room, and she looked less than pleased. “There's a dead pigeon on your bed,” she announced.

I didn't feel immediately concerned. I had grown up with cats who were outdoors a lot and whose access included the cow pasture that was adjacent to our house in Virginia. I'd thought I'd seen it all.

But I'd never seen a dead pigeon on my bed.

Fortunately, it wasn't a bloody mess, but oh, what plumage! There were feathers everywhere. I hadn't planned on doing laundry that night, but suddenly, that was at the top of my agenda.

Oh, and I had to scold Mort. I looked at him, shook my finger and firmly said, “Bad!”

( But through my eyes, I probably couldn't hide the other thing I wanted to say. It was, “Thank you. I love you, too.”)

What was left of the main part of the pigeon was smack dab in the upper middle part of my bed – where the bed's heart would be, if it had one. I knew Mort had brought the pigeon to me as a token of his affection. Not only was I touched by the gesture, but I also was quite proud of my little hunter. He had captured a large bird, actually killed it, and then negotiated its carcass through the steel labyrinth that had become his playground. You just can't help but be impressed.

Shortly thereafter, I bought a screen for the window, but Mort still found a way out. He'd bend the screen's corner and slide right through. He'd then go off on his excursions, accessing the roof as well as the other fire escapes that were installed strategically around the 8-story building and within its airshafts.

And over the course of the next several months, he would bring home two more pigeons. Maybe, though, he had heard some of my scolding, as I noted how the trail of feathers carefully circumvented my bed. Cleaning up those second two wasn't such a big deal, and luckily, I made the discoveries before my roommate came home. We never told her about those pigeons.

to be continued on March 1st.

Monday Reruns: For the Love of Rob

(original post-date: January 5, 2011)

Five or six years ago, I was working regularly with a nonprofit youth drop-in agency based in South Central L.A. Though my role was as a consultant, I was given a desk to call my own, and so I was there, on-site, about two or three times a week.

On one of my on-site days, Dick Van Dyke dropped by. He had learned of the agency’s work through some community event, and he had come by to discover more.

Once he entered the development trailer, I couldn’t resist the opportunity to approach him.

I emerged from the office I shared with Miki and extended by hand. “Hello,” I said to the venerable showman. “I’m Katie. And I’ve just got to tell you that I grew up with your show, and I had such a crush on you.

“But,” I added, “it was kind of a weird crush, because I couldn’t figure it out. I didn’t know if I wanted you to be my father or if I wanted you to be my husband!”

“How about ‘Grampa?’” Dick Van Dyke replied, kindly, contorting his face to accompany his comment.

I raised my eyebrows teasingly and left him to his tour, realizing, as I headed back to my office, that his response had been a compliment: Younger than my Dad, he clearly is not old enough to be my “Grampa,” and apparently, I didn’t look old enough to be his daughter (or, for that matter, his wife).

So, that’s as far as our conversation went.

But it has stayed with me.

… More than a year ago, I ordered the entire Dick Van Dyke series on DVD (yes, there’s redundancy there), and I’ve really enjoyed watching the show that engaged me to such a degree when I was in elementary school.

Rob and Laura: the ultimate couple. Attractive and alive, they never fooled me or anyone when they climbed into those twin beds on Bonnie Meadow Road. They were in love and vibrant.

And I wanted him to be my dad…

But why?

I had a great dad… In fact, like Rob Petrie, my dad was quite funny.

Also, like Rob Petrie, my dad found ways to parlay his humor into creative pursuits.

So why would I want to replace him?

I don’t know. Maybe I liked the way Rob was at-one with his absolute klutziness. Maybe I liked the way he acted like a kid. Maybe, just maybe, it helped that Rob had a son. I know that my own dad would have appreciated having a son. It was apparent that Christmas morning when my sister and I entered the living room to discover Santa's delivery of… an electric train!

Insofar as I was elementary school age when I was developing my crush on Rob Petrie, it’s not surprising that I transferred my crush into considering his potential as a father. I mean, at that age, fantasizing about a husband?

Still, I couldn’t help but notice how he played that role so beautifully…

Especially in that era, Rob Petrie was a unique husband.

Sure, the household in New Rochelle was a sign of the times in some rather distinct ways. Laura was the housewife and mother. Rob, the bread-winner.

But: Rob worked with a professional woman (Sally Rogers), and he respected her. He respected that women could be bread winners in the world. Rob also respected Laura. She wasn’t just some “wife with an allowance.” She was a woman – a strong woman – who had opinions, dreams, talents.

And he adored her. That part was always clear.

And, regardless of what a woman expects from her man, being adored will probably always take the top of the list.

So, between the ages of six and eleven (or so), I regularly watched Dick Van Dyke. Loving the father, who was so much like my own, and dreaming about a husband…

I don’t know that most husbands these days adore their wives. I don’t know that we have a lot of time for that. With all the multi-tasking, it’s probably a bit difficult for anybody to feel adored. But, back in my pre-pubescence, that seemed like a pretty good deal. It seemed like a pretty good deal to emerge – either from a day of housewifery or from a career – to find a charmingly klutzy, extremely comic man opening his arms to my opinions, my dreams, and my talents.