Tag: infj

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An INFJ’s Take on Trust and Optimism

How about those holidays? Raise your hand if you’re glad they are over. Reminds me of a quote I ran across a couple years ago: Tradition is our ancestors’ way of controlling us. Then I think of all the traditions I’ve created that my kids will probably feel like they have to perpetuate – the Advent Calendar for one. What was I thinking?

Anyway, I’d gotten Will a nice shirt for Christmas. After opening it, he held it up and Jen and I both said, “Oh! A date shirt!” He didn’t respond. Never mentioned it at all until a couple nights ago. (Often our best chats happen in a text stream.) While he was out with friends, he sent me a text saying that he wasn’t ignoring our comment about it being a date shirt, but that he doesn’t want to disappoint me by not dating.

We back-and-forth texted for quite a while. At one point I told him that I didn’t care if he dated or not but that I wanted him to be happy. If dating is part of what makes him happy, then I’d be thrilled for him. More importantly, I’m not disappointed either way! He explained that he’s still hesitant after his last attempt – 3 years ago. (I wonder where he gets it.)

Then I texted something about how trust is certainly an issue, but that I really think the bigger issue is trusting yourself. “Trust yourself to not get in too deep with a wrong person. If you can trust yourself, you can navigate anything. By now you’ve certainly learned that you can recuperate from a broken heart.”

I reminded Will (myself?) that all “the experts” say that the real learning happens within a relationship. (Excuse me?! Have I not been learning a ton about how to be a happy, functioning, fulfilled, capable single person? How many of these so-called experts are in happy, committed relationships?)

I talk a big game.

I sound pretty optimistic for someone who is still hesitant to get out there after not having tried for almost 7 years.

I laugh at myself for developing this side story with Hank. Where do I think this could go, knowing all my reservations and my lack of trust? Still, my inner optimist wants to think there could be someone out there, even if he’s fictitious and I’m the one who made him up! Hell, maybe that’s the best kind of partner. He’d be there when I need him, but there wouldn’t be any of the messy stuff like schedule conflicts, lack of alone time or having to sleep together. Ick. Hank is the guy to go out to dinner with, have the deep conversations with, go for walks with and catch a movie with. He’s also the guy who doesn’t get bent out of shape if I don’t want him to spend the night, or move in, or co-mingle bank accounts. He’s a travel partner and ski partner who is like-minded when it comes to politics and open-minded about philosophy, reading and art.

Yeah. He’s definitely a unicorn, but he’s my unicorn.

But, wait?! Aren’t I also describing a best girlfriend? Wouldn’t she check all the boxes?

As I write this, I realize that there’s this tiny part of me that still wants to be attracted to – and attractive to – a guy. Is it my age (mortality?) telling me I’m running out of time? Is this a Crone’s Relationship Biological Clock? Hell, no! The little I’ve read about Crones tells me they wouldn’t give a shit about whether they are attractive to anyone. They are too busy inhabiting their skin and being glorious in their own Crone-y way to worry about whether a relationship would fulfill them or not!

Unicorn Hank isn’t going to expect me to pick up his socks, cook his dinner (and complain about the food), demand back rubs and be too busy to go to a movie with me. But history tells me (at least my history) that an IRL Hank comes with expectations. Thoughts of those expectations start the stress and the physical manifestations of that stress. That’s when I know I can’t really be an optimist, that I do have trust issues (even with myself), and that relationships are fine for other people, and I’m fine NOT being in one.

When Will asks me why I don’t take my own advice and trust myself, or why I don’t get back out there and try again, I’ll explain that I’m really busy with projects. I’ve got to finish recovering the couch because Pansy “loved” it up too much. (Clearly, I’m an optimist if I’m taking the time to recover the couch without attempting to discourage Pansy’s fondness for scratching.) Oh, and I’ve got to get the shelves up in the new bathroom. I’m sure Jen will be coming home soon, so I better plan menus and bake her favorite things. I should really get some seeds ordered and figure out what I’ll be planting where, come May. I’ve got some blog housekeeping to do, and I’m still ruminating on that novel I pretend to be writing. Doesn’t the popcorn on the ceiling in the hallway need to come down? There’s always work and meetings and classes.

Oh! I have to finish those slacks I found at Goodwill. I let the hem out and now there’s a faded line where the old hem used to be. I found a Prismacolor – Light Umber. It’s a close match. (Luckily, Jen didn’t take all her art supplies with her.) After applying the Light Umber, I’ll sketch over top a bit with a black Sharpie to blend it and … Who am I kidding? I don’t let anyone close enough to see a faded hemline on my slacks.

Anyway, I’m entirely too busy. Besides, why would I want to mess up this good thing I’ve got going.

p.s. Will says the couch looks like the 70s – in a good way. Pansy won’t go near it. Yet.

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My Second Saturn Return

I’m smack dab in the middle of my Second Saturn Return.

While I may read about astrology and refer to it to try to make sense of things, I don’t know a lot about it. I discovered this second return business a few months ago and it was a light-bulb moment. I had been blaming a lot on the pandemic, but the pandemic ended up being the framework for me to become more myself, which, it turns out, is very much a part of this Saturn Return thing.

As a person who has spent her life wondering why she doesn’t fit in, when she’ll be in the right place, or why she can’t comfortably do things like others or feel the way others do, I’ve finally gotten to the point where I can quit wondering about that. At least that’s what Saturn says.

Don’t all of us struggle with wondering where we fit in, if we fit in, and why it’s so difficult to feel a sense of belonging? I know it’s the hallmark of an INFJ to feel that, but would we (those lucky enough to live long enough) even have a Second Saturn Return if it wasn’t necessary (for all of us) to come to a point where the stars shout out, “It’s okay to be you and it’s about damn time!”

The stars aren’t up there for only those who believe in Saturn Returns. They are up there for all of us.

Perhaps you are thinking that I’ve lost it during my second return. I’ve turned into a recluse who is angry at white men and politicians and laziness and entitlement and apathy. Maybe you’ve noticed that I’m over here screaming that we need to care more, when clearly I have work to do on caring for established white men. Yes! I am a conflicted, complicated, messy, contradictory woman in her Second Saturn Return. I am all of those things and more.

I GET TO BE ALL THOSE THINGS BECAUSE THE STARS SAY SO!

I’m turning 60 next month and when my kids ask me what I want (and what I want to do) for my birthday, I wince.

I Googled “60th birthday present” and promptly told them NOT to get me some commemorative bauble that will sit in a box in my sock drawer. I Googled vacation spots and remembered that we would most likely be in the middle of a BA.2 (or whatever variant we’ll be on by then) cloud wherever we landed. I decided I’d rather put money toward the new bathroom we’ve been needing for 5 years.

In lieu of a shiny trinket or a trip to a place I can’t afford, I requested that Jen draw something that commemorates this auspicious (?) day, and Will take a picture of the three of us on the day. That way they can both use their talents creating something I’ll cherish, and it’s crossed off their lists.

Here’s what else I want from them:

I want them to try to circumvent the astrological system and see if they can learn to be okay with who they are, long before I did. Just because the stars give permission when you turn 58, couldn’t my kids be mavericks and get there a little sooner?

Being okay with who they are requires that they make their mental health a priority. (Being okay with who they are doesn’t mean they just sit back and say, “This is it. Take me as I am.”)

I want them to pay attention to how they feel. For years, I’ve wanted to see a therapist, but either I didn’t have the money, or something else was more important. The library provided therapy for me – that and the internet. I want them to know they have options. We live in a time when there is much less stigma about getting help. Because of all the resources available, there is no excuse for not seeking help. Yes, money is a factor, insurance is a thing, and trying to get an actual appointment during a time when absolutely everyone is faced with challenges may make getting help seem impossible, but help is out there. Reading (and writing) can fill the gap until money, insurance and an appointment can be worked out. For many of us, reading and writing are all we have.

Attention to mental health paves the way for us to accept ourselves.

It’s hard. Many days it just plain sucks. It requires work. I want them to understand that mental health is something they will work on their whole lives. As they grow and change, new issues will come up, and other issues will fade or be resolved. Mental health is not a project that gets crossed off the list, but an ongoing journey that could culminate in them being the best possible versions of who they can be. We’re all works in progress. (Putting in the effort also prepares us for whatever is in store in the next go-round.)

Also, I want them to take a good hard look at who they let into their lives. Are they surrounded by people who lift them up, or are they surrounded by those who want to bring them down? One of my aunt’s favorite quotes was from William Gibson: “Before you diagnose yourself with depression or low self-esteem, first make sure that you are not, in fact, just surrounded by assholes.” Are they surrounded by assholes? Or worse, are they assholes? Some days we all are. That’s when we have extra work to do.

I want them to find their tribe. Tribe is a big word. There can be two in a tribe – you and one other, but that person has your back, just as you have theirs. You most likely won’t find your tribe in your family or on Facebook. You might find your tribe on Twitter or at the library or in the produce section at Whole Foods. It can happen. Trust in the possibility.

The last thing I want for my 60th birthday is for them (and me) to lighten up a little. I want Jen to stop insisting that every grade has to be an A. I want Will to stop beating himself up for some of the choices he made in the last couple of years. (I plan to forgive myself for some of my choices, too.) I have to wonder, if we all lightened up on ourselves a bit, would we find it easier to be kinder and more caring of others?

I plan to continue to accept myself, while working on myself, up to (and beyond) my Third Saturn Return.

Happy birthday to complicated, caring, messy Me.

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A Mama Bear on the Strawberry Full Moon

Maybe I reacted the way I did because the kids and I spent a stress-filled Saturday trying to negotiate Father’s Day with you-know-who.

Could be I reacted the way I did because work is busy, life is crazy and I’d reached my breaking point.

I might have reacted the way I did because my yard is my sanctuary.  This place is our safe landing.

Whatever the reasons, I was justified!

 

When I get home from the office, I kick off my shoes, get treats for Pansy, check in to see what’s new with Jen, and figure out what we’re going to eat.  This day was no different, or so I thought.

Jen mentioned that she thought she heard someone on the front step.  I suggested that it may have been the mailman.

She said, “Nope.  The mailman was just here.  I heard the sound before.”

“Well maybe your brother stopped by for a cup of coffee, while you were in the shower.”  Except, the coffee corner wasn’t covered in coffee grounds, so that meant he wasn’t here.  I opened the front door to check the mail, and a flyer from a yard spraying company fell to the floor.  I said, “Honey, they must be spraying in the neighborhood, and they’re trying to drum up more business.”

She said, “Oh, I thought I smelled it.  I figured the neighbors were having their yard sprayed today.”

I said, “Let’s close the windows.  I hate that stuff.”

 

The next thing I do, after getting back from the office, and perhaps more importantly for my roommates, is step out into the backyard.  Barefooted.  On purpose.

That’s how I get grounded and shift gears to what is required next.

I might only be out there for 5 minutes, but that’s all it takes.

 

Today I smelled the spray the minute I exited the door.  The basil looked almost dead.  The grass (okay, maybe it’s mostly clover) felt crunchy.  I tried to figure out how things could look so dry, as I’d just watered the night before.  I set up a sprinkler and noticed the leaves on the strawberries were curling.  What the hell?

I walked to the side yard and noticed that my feet felt sticky.  The gate on the west side was wide open.  We keep it secured with a latch hook.  How did Will get that open from the outside?  I called him and he said he hadn’t been over.  I went inside and asked Jen if she’d forgotten to close the gate.  She hadn’t been out there.

Now I’m worried that someone had gone into our backyard.  (It wouldn’t have been the first time, hence the latch hooks.)  I better check to make sure the lawn mower and weed whacker are still in the shed.

I’m starting to feel slightly frantic.

Jen said, “Mom, do you still have the flyer from the spraying company?”  I dug it out of the trash.  It said, “We applied your 2nd treatment today!”  The flyer showed checked boxes that indicated what had been sprayed on our yard.

 

This Mama Bear was livid.

 

I have lived here 13 years.  I’ve been raising kids and cats without chemicals.  Our yard is visited regularly by birds and squirrels, earthworms and bunnies, dandelions and way too many ants, and the occasional gopher.  I have been known to sprinkle diatomaceous earth around the ant holes.  I’ve even resorted to putting a spider bomb in the crawl space.  Once.  (The kids, cat and I camped at the park for the day, to keep our distance from the fumes.)

I HATE ANY KIND OF SPRAY THAT KILLS WEEDS OR BUGS but, of course, spiders are a whole different story.

Now my strawberries, raspberries, basil, chives, tomatoes and everything else have been sprayed with Goddess-knows-what!

On top of that, Jen and I started a bee garden this year.

 

I called the company, which is saying a lot for an INFJ, who hates making phone calls and avoids confrontation.  Their response was, “Oops.  Wrong yard.”

I guess I should be thankful they didn’t charge me?

 

I looked at Jen and said, “Let’s walk up to grandma’s.  I feel the need to vent.”  I was seen stomping the six blocks to grandma’s house.  In case I haven’t mentioned it, I use my hands when I talk.  (I’m a quarter Italian, what can I say?)  Poor Jen had to walk next to me as I flailed my arms, stopped my feet and loudly ranted the entire six blocks.

Jen calmly said, “You know how we were talking about you being a Leo rising, and how they get emotional about things?  You said, ‘Well, that’s not me.'”  I said, I mean, yelled, “Did I say that?!”  She said, “Yes.”  I said, “Well, dammit!  Maybe it’s the full moon, or my Leo rising, or the fact that I feel violated by having someone access my sanctuary and spray poison all over the green and growing things.  Maybe it’s the stressors with your dad over the weekend.  Or it could be that I’m a Mama Bear and it’s my job to protect you and your brother and Pansy and our yard!  Whatever it is, it is What it is!”  Jen said, “You’re right.  It’s okay to get emotional about it.  But, my Aquarius rising makes it hard for me to know what to say to help.”  I said, “You don’t have to say anything, just keep a safe distance when I’m ranting and my arms are flailing about!”

We laughed.

I said, “I’m entitled to feel this way.”

She said, “You are.”

 

 

 

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The Yam Incident or Inside an INFJ Brain

Sometime during the holidays I’d returned from my eighth trip to the grocery store.  I put water on to boil, and unpacked the groceries.

I needed coffee.

As I put away the pasta, bottled marinara (don’t judge) and the sugary cereal, I discovered a bag of …

I wasn’t sure, but I thought they were yams or sweet potatoes or something in that category.

My initial reaction – based on years of tightly pinching** pennies – was, “Gasp, I hope I didn’t get charged for those root vegies!”  I grabbed the receipt and verified that there wasn’t a charge, which was a bit unfortunate because, had there been a charge, I’d have been able to more accurately identify the tubers.

Next thought was, “How did those get in my cart?  What kind of sicko wanders the produce section looking for unsuspecting victims and then launches a tuber attack?”

I made sure the kids knew I was incensed.  I wondered aloud.  A lot.  “What am I supposed to do with these?  Do I take them back?  Like I don’t have enough to do?!  I still have to finish the baking!  This isn’t fair!”

I looked over at the kids to see if they were as worked up as I was.  They’d moved to the other room by then.

 

I sat down with coffee and iPad to search – “yam vs sweet potato.”  What do I even do with these things?  I’m not gonna go to a whole lot of fuss if my kids aren’t gonna eat them.

The voice in my head said, “Throw them away!  You don’t have time for this.”  But that prompted the other voice to say, “You can’t waste perfectly good root vegies.  They might be chock-full of vitamins and minerals!”

I got lost down the rabbit hole of tubers; recipes; holiday prep; best holiday cocktail and How to Simplify Christmas.

 

Undecided, I put the three in a bowl.  It occurred to me that perhaps they belonged to the folks that had been ahead of me in the check out line.

The voices in my head had a hay day with this new line of thinking.  “Oh no!  They got home without their tubers!  Now they can’t make grandma’s favorite recipe.  Christmas will be ruined!”

I even considered how I might track them down and get their vegies back to them, you know, in the spirit of Christmas.

 

The tubers sat in the bowl, untouched, until after the holiday, all the way into the New Year.  I’d occasionally glance at them and consider Googling more recipes, but walk away in disgust.  Incidentally, yams have an exceedingly long shelf life, making it virtually impossible for them to grow moldy so that I could throw them away without guilt.

One day, I found myself without kids.

I was alone.

In the kitchen.

With the yams.

Inspiration struck in the form of Sweet Potato Soup.  Even if I was the only one who liked it, I deserved it, dammit.  Besides, the pictures on the internet made it look so tasty.  Thanks to the multiple trips to the store, driven by the mania of the holidays, all the ingredients were found in the pantry.

This would be fun!

As I gathered the ingredients and found the seldom-used potato peeler, I thought back on the couple from the grocery store.  I wondered how they were doing.  How was their holiday?  Did they ever end up making grandma’s recipe?

With sweet potato in hand, I dragged the peeler across the rough skin to discover that this vegie – one of three that had been waiting in a bowl in my kitchen for going on four weeks – was not the kind needed to make Sweet Potato Soup.

I gathered up the other two roots, ceremoniously walked them out to the dumpster, and came in to put some water on to boil.

 

* I’d considered buying three more so that I might include a photo with this post, but I’m not going there.

**You may be thinking that I don’t really pinch pennies if I buy bottled sauce and sugared cereal.  The fact that I thought about what you might be thinking, about my lack of pinching pennies, is another example of the varied thoughts running through my over-active INFJ brain.   

 

*sigh*

 

 

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“I’ve Missed Talking to You”

Normally, she’d have gone through the self-check line, but they were busy.  Her four items made their way down the conveyor belt in time for the clerk to say, “That’s all for you?  Looks like Italian tonight?  I’ve the best recipe for lasagna, of course it calls for spinach and my family would shoot me if I dared put anything green in a meal.  Do you know what I mean?  Like they think I’m trying to kill ’em or something.  Little do they know, spinach is one of the best things for ’em.  Do you like spinach?”

She smiled as she inserted her credit card in the chip reader.  She started to give an answer about spinach, but the clerk went on.  Luckily the boy bagging her groceries had already finished.  She said thanks, without having to jump into the spinach-in-lasagna debate.

 

She had two more files to close and then she’d be done for the day.  She opened a file just as a co-worker approached.  She wondered about keeping her head down and not making eye contact so as to avoid conversation.  If she acknowledged her co-worker, she’d be enveloped in drama and details from the previous weekend that had nothing to do with her.  But even keeping her head down wouldn’t protect her.  “Wow.  You must have a lot going on.  What’s that file about?”  What could have taken 20 minutes turned into 40.

 

Between the teller at the bank and the clerk at the post office, she learned about the lives of people that she would never meet.

She knew secrets about people who didn’t know her name.

She knows things about folks that they only learn during the process of talking to her.  She’s heard people say, “I guess I needed to tell someone that.”  “It feels good to unload.”  “I haven’t thought of that in years, I can’t believe I’m telling you this.”

If she had a dollar for every time someone said, “I’ve never told anyone that before,” she could afford to move to a deserted island.

 

A long time ago she realized that she was some sort of conduit for processing other people’s stuff.   It was not her job to fix anything.

She just listened.  She listened and let it pass through her.

Sometimes they felt a little better having been heard.  Often times, they felt embarrassed for having divulged so much that ought to be personal.  They’d laugh at themselves and apologize, and do the same thing the next time she saw them.

It was as if they couldn’t help themselves.

 

One evening found her at a social engagement that she hadn’t wanted to attend.  She’d tried coming up with an excuse.  She wanted to stay home, but The Voice said, “Come on.  You never go out.  It’ll be good for you.”

She went.  He talked.  A lot.  At the end of the night he said, “I’ve missed talking to you.”

She smiled.

What could she say?  “Thank you?”  “I missed listening to you?”  “I’m glad you like to talk to me?”

He drove away as she turned the key in her door.

She put her purse on the table and saw the cat waiting for her in their favorite chair – the one where they sat together in silence.

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INFJ at the Office

Congratulations!  You got the job!

You were nervous about the interview, but you aced it because you’re good with one-on-one conversation.  The worst part of the process was waiting for the call that would tell you whether or not you were accepted for the position.  You made yourself sick with worry.  You even practiced how to answer the phone and how to talk without finishing their sentences.

When they called to offer the job, you tripped over yourself saying something like, “Oh, no!  I mean, that’s great!  I’m sorry.  Yes? No!  I’ll take it!”

The first day was nerve-wracking what with all the introductions, but now you are several weeks into it and you’re over the bumpy part of being the new person.

The coffee doesn’t suck.  The parking isn’t bad.  You can bring your lunch without feeling like a dork.  It’s not a bad place to spend the day.

But you are an INFJ, so there are issues.  This doesn’t surprise you because you are, well… an INFJ.

 

You care about your co-workers.  You remember birthdays.  You always ask how their weekend was.  You inquire of his mother’s recent surgery.  Your co-workers like you.  That’s a good thing, but that also makes it difficult to get your work done.  You are the first person they come to when they want to be heard.  They vent to you about each other, and they run new ideas by you.  All the while, management applauds your newbie efforts at teamwork, turning to you each time a new project needs coordinating.

And there you sit on your lunch hour doing all the work that you can’t get done because everyone comes to you with their stuff.

Plug along, INFJ.  You’ll find a way to be there for your co-workers and still get the work done.  It’ll take time, but you are organized.  Be patient with yourself and your co-workers’ needs to come to you. You won’t likely change this dynamic, so understand it and use it to your benefit.

 

Your integrity is unmatched in the workplace.  In the beginning, you’ll look up to your boss.  You’ll respect management.  After a few months, though, you’ll be reminded that everyone is motivated by different things.  (Remember this from those MBTI tests?)  You aren’t motivated by money.  Just about every one of your co-workers is motivated by money.  While they might tell you that customer service is their priority, you will learn that it is not.  You will feel the need to remind them that if they made customer service a priority, the money would follow.

They come to you to be heard, dear INFJ.  They do not want to be preached to.  They think your priorities are endearing, but they don’t begin to understand why you aren’t motivated by money.

Save your breath.  Keep working hard.  Be the quiet team-player that you are, even if that means that some days you’ll end up working through your lunch hour.  Remind yourself that we are all motivated differently and that it is possible to respect them, even if you don’t understand their priorities.

At the end of the day, you’ll be respected for doing your job well, and clients will seek you out because of your excellent customer service skills.

 

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The Time-Out Chair

I attended elementary school in an old brick building that, many years later, turned into a church –  I think.  The church was named Saint Some-One-Or-Other, but I can’t remember which saint.  I think it’s now empty, but I’m not sure on that, either.  There was one class for each grade and it seems as though there were only about 20 kids in each grade.

Even though there were only 20 sixth-graders out on the playground, those opinionated kids could get in a ruckus in a real hurry.

That’s what social media is reminding me of – sixth graders blowing off stink, on a playground.

Everyone is yelling.

He yells over them.  She yells over him.  They yell over each other.

No one is listening.

Everyone conveniently forgot the tenet about not speaking if you don’t have anything nice to say.

They’ve forgotten tolerance, and more importantly, they’ve forgotten kindness.

 

I never put my kids in a time-out.  I don’t know why I never liked that form of discipline.  Is the idea that the kid is supposed to sit in a chair, face the corner, and think about how to behave better?  I guess because I’m a natural born over-thinker, I never thought the time-out chair was a good idea.

If – when I was a sixth grader – I’d ever been ordered to a time-out chair, I’m afraid of what I’d have over-thought about.  Back then the subjects could have run the gamut from:  Why do some sixth grade girls have big chests while others haven’t even started their periods?  Why do almost all girls have crushes on sixth grade boys who are so clueless?  Is world domination out of the question or a distinct possibility?  Do I want to even mess with dominating a world inhabited by sixth grade boys?

(I’ve a vague recollection of being sent to my room, which is pretty much the same thing, but for an introvert, that’s like a snow day off from school!)

I knew, when my two were very young, that they had acquired my high-level over-thinking skills.  I wasn’t going to give them an opportunity to over/out think me, so the only time-out chair we ever had was a cute little wooden thing we painted for a school fundraiser.  We ended up buying it to put in the garden.  (Imagine crickets, potato beetles and earthworms assigned to that chair for their time-outs.)

 

Now, however, a time-out chair would be heavenly.  I’m not sure I’d even want the internet in my corner.  I’d have a delicious chunk of time to happily ruminate on the usual subjects – cabernet vs. pinot vs. merlot; techniques for texturing the ceiling after popcorn removal; how to reclaim a neglected garden spot; do I really need AWD when front wheel is less expensive; why is it taking me so long to read the Harry Potter series when I’m enjoying it so much (see aforementioned time-sucking subjects); and what will I do with myself when kids are grown and gone?

I’m not pretending that any of these subjects are even remotely interesting to anyone else, but they aren’t unkind or intolerant or likely to raise my blood pressure.  (That said, the popcorn ceiling removal was a pretty good workout.)

 

Anyhow, the ruckus on both social media and the airwaves has me fantasizing that if I were Queen for a Day, I’d assign everyone to their own time-out chair – especially the sixth graders.

 

 

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An INFJ Goes for a Walk

There’s a guy at the office who calls me Smiley.

While my default expression at home is probably more like a resting tired face*, my public face is usually smiling.

I once walked around the mezzanine of a Texas dance hall.  The space was filled with vendors selling concho belts, cowboy hats, turquoise jewelry and beer in white plastic cups.  I had never been to Texas before, and while I’m not afraid of dancing, I wanted to see what else went on in the dance hall.  As I walked the loop, I greeted vendors and watched the dancers down below.  On my second pass, a vendor said, “You’re the only person in this place with a smile on her face.”

I learned a long time ago that a quick smile makes interactions more pleasant.  It wasn’t until today that I realized that it’s that smile that attracts folks to me.  All along I thought I had a magnet in my back pocket.

 

I’ve written about how the kids brace themselves before we get to the checkout line at the store because I will be paying for groceries and hear the clerk’s life story.

I can’t mail a package without learning about the postal employee’s 20 year battle with arthritis, even though I don’t have arthritis, know nothing about arthritis, and simply said, “How are you today?”

 

I left the house this morning to walk the hill at the park.  Jen insisted I take the bear spray.  We don’t live in a scary neighborhood (the bears are usually about 60 miles north and west of here), and I hate packing anything when I walk, but for her sake, I took the spray.

On my descent, I saw a fellow sipping coffee from a thermos cup.  He was the only person in the parking lot.  He turned as I approached.  I smiled and said, “Good morning.”

Does that sound flirtatious to you?

 

He talked.  I smiled and listened.

I am an INFJ.

I don’t flirt.  I don’t know how to flirt.  Watching others flirt upsets my stomach.

 

He talked of when he lived in Montana, why he is here now, his passion for studying Big Foot, his love of ceramics, the chaos over Muslims in the Middle East, Folf, his Roman Catholic upbringing, has anti-war stance and what it’s like to be a senior person on a college campus.

He didn’t have any teeth, and he wore a pony tail that looked like a failed attempt at a man bun.

I’m not judging.  I’m fleshing out the character in this story.

(Okay, I might be judging a little.  I am an INFJ.)

Some of the conversation was interesting, but I’ll admit to trying to get a word in to excuse myself.

Finally! His grandson came down from throwing a frisbee and said, “Pops! It’s time to go!”

I said, “Yeah, nice visiting with you, I have to get back to my kids.”

He stuck out his hand and said, “What’s your name?  Are you single?”  His grip tightened, not in a scary way, but I did grab his wrist with my left hand to release my right hand from his.  I waved and said, “See ya!” as I walked off.  He said, “You’re cute!  If you ever get bored …”

I walked home fast.  I wasn’t so much smiling as laughing.

I walked in the door and Jen asked, “How was your walk?”  I told Jen that I was glad she’d insisted I take the bear spray.  When I explained, she said she was glad I’d taken the spray, too.  She wasn’t at all surprised, because she knows what I attract.

 

As I sit here typing this post, I’m smiling.  I’m smiling at the Universe for continually putting these types in my path.  I never really understood why before.  I didn’t know what I was doing to bring this into my world.

Now I know it’s my smile.  It’s my smile and my ability to listen, and there are so many people out there who just want to be heard.

 

 

*Why must they refer to that as a Resting Bitch Face?

 

 

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