It never occurred to me, at least consciously anyway that I was an innie—someone who prefers the comfort of their own thoughts, stands outside the circle of a crowded room, and would rather shuck oysters under the blazing sun than make small talk—and not an outtie.
I had an inclination that I preferred the cool of the shade, since I’ve propensity to circle a room looking for a window to crawl out of or a whole to jump into. I loath standing center stage under the bright lights; rather I bloom in the intimate setting. Further, I was (am) circumspect with what and whom I share my secret self with—because she’s all sorts of suspect and seven types of scary—all of which were/are clues to my true self.
Of course, there were other signs, like the realization that I had only one best friend at a time, not several. I never understood how a person could have multiple besties at once. Maybe for some it’s possible, but not me. I’d die having to confess to twelve best buddies about the kiss with that boy whose sculpted chest and immense arms melted me, or about the big scandal I had the pleasure of being forcibly made to participate in. Hell, I barely managed to tell my husband, but that was only after a martini and a bottle of wine. But then he sort of already knew since my picture made the front page of several newspapers. It wasn’t something I could deny when he inquired about the lost weekend.
Another clue was how short my attention span is. I have a habit of falling instantly, truly, madly, and deeply, enamored with someone, but quick as a wink I can be wooed by another. In my defense I’m deeply committed during the length of a relationship but when it’s over, it’s over. I move forward.
Over the years, I’ve pondered the why of this and came to the understanding that I’m one of those odd ones who believe people are destined for one another, but that at the same time not every encounter is meant to last all the seasons of my life. This was and is difficult to accept, which I have I’ve come to believe has shaped my skepticism and limited appreciation of social media.
If I hesitate confessing the number of lovers I’ve had over the years to my best friend you can imagine my reluctance disclosing concerns about the size of my bum or how I feel about tofu on Facebook or Twitter. It seems to me the world is a quieter place without me adding witty quips in 140 characters or less on any topic, yet I do. It pains me to admit, 1) am a reluctant exhibitionist, 2) I share unnecessary facts about meaningless topics, 3) having a virtual thumbprint gives me street cred with editors and agents, and 4) it’s a must do for writers and bloggers.
It’s mandatory to share my innie feelings. I must be witty, thoughtful, profound, articulate, funny, sensitive, purposeful, energetic, and above all, go against my genetic code, and become an outtie.
BUT….I am occasionally one or all of the following on any given day or the week:
- I’m grumpy
- I’m too blue
- Or red with road rage
- Just not in the mood, can’t be bothered to share or offer commentary about tofu
- I’m pensive, whiny, bitchy, emotional, or simply caught in moment I can’t get out of
- Focused on something, like a novel
- Day dreamy about the lanky with come hither
- Definitely not witty
- I’d rather write
Clearly I am whiny innie.