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Are you an introvert or an extrovert? Do you know? I found an article titled “Top 5 Things Every Extrovert Should Know About Introverts“, and here’s how the author, Brian Kim, loosely makes the distinction:
Extroverts tend to be those who are more energized when around other people. … Introverts tend to be those who are more energized when alone with themselves.
As the mother and wife of two very introverted people, I have given a considerable amount of thought to this and it was interesting to me to read the following on Kim’s site. I haven’t had the time to research further to try and see if there’s any validity to it, but it certainly would explain a lot:
Introverts have more brain activity in their frontal lobes and when these areas are activated through solitary activity, introverts become energized through processes such as problem solving, introspection, and complex thinking.
Extroverts on the other hand tend to have more activity in the back of their brain, areas that deal with processing sensory information from the external world, so they tend to search for external stimuli in the form of interacting with other people and the outside world to energize them.
Kim goes on to address 5 common misconceptions, and make several good points. I’ve culled a few of them here.
1. If a person is introverted, it does NOT mean they are shy or anti-social.
Many times when I was a young mum and unsure of how badly I was screwing up, I found myself defending my eldest son to family and friends, and insisting that he’s not shy or anti-social. At the same time, I would get my own insecurities about whether I was doing something horribly wrong and he was going to live a miserable life as a result.
Then someone brought it into focus for me a few years ago, and said, “Let me get this straight. You have a teenage son who doesn’t drink, smoke, or do drugs. Instead of hanging around on the street with a bunch of punks, he prefers to just stay home, with his parents. Um, tell me again – where’s the problem?”
I have been known to be an idiot at times, yes.
2. Introverts tend to dislike small talk.
If you really want to engage an introvert in conversation, skip the small talk. Introverts tend to love deep conversations on subjects that interest them. They love to debate, go past the superficial and poke around the depths in people’s minds to see what’s really going on in there. Most, if not all introverts tend to regard small talk as a waste of time, unless it’s with someone new they just met.
This characteristic probably contributes to another misconception that extroverts have of introverts – the misconception that all introverts are arrogant.
Why?
Because extroverts notice that introverts don’t talk that much with other people. Therefore, extroverts assume that introverts think they’re too good to talk to others, hence arrogant and that’s hardly the case.
The most common experience I’ve had is people assuming that introverts are insecure. This has always fascinated me – how people can think that introverts are shy and/or insecure one minute, and then think that they’re arrogant the next. Erm….?
I generally hate talking on the phone with people, feel awkward, and will ring off with flimsy excuses, and I couldn’t really tell you why. But I also have a couple of friends with whom I’ve had marathon phone conversations, lasting far into the night (five, six hours sometimes, even more), and I thoroughly enjoyed them. The difference? We talked about life. Beliefs. Hopes and fears. Stuff that makes you go “Hmmm…”.
3. Introverts do like to socialize – only in a different manner and less frequently than extroverts.
And what’s more, introverts can do a lot of things extroverts are naturally good at – give great speeches, schmooze with everyone, be the life of the party, charm the socks off of total strangers – but only for a short period of time. After that, they need time for themselves which brings us to the fourth point.
Maybe this is where the notion of insecurity comes from? I don’t have a fear of public speaking, and have done so many times, but I only do it when it serves a specific and worthwhile purpose – that’s when it gives me energy. Otherwise, it’s a drain. I’m constantly fascinated by human behaviour and love being around people and just observing. But I am also very sensitive, emotionally and physically, to the atmosphere and moods of others. A few years ago I clued in that the “processing sensory information from the external world” thing that Kim mentions about extroverts can be a lot of work for me, so I’m pretty picky about the people I spend time with now. I can spend hours and hours with someone who is genuine and open, but put an energy vampire in the room and I’m looking for the door.
4. Introverts need time alone to recharge.
Extroverts tend to think introverts have something against them as they constantly seem to refuse generous invites to social engagements. Introverts do appreciate the offers, but it’s just that they know it will take a lot of energy out of them if they pursue these social functions.
Exactly. But don’t forget that sometimes other circumstances, like physical handicaps, can make a person appear to be more introverted than they might otherwise be. Another factor to consider is the home life. If they’re happy and content with their family, or even by themselves, going out just for the sake of going out isn’t a welcome escape – it’s an effort, and one that often isn’t worth it. I know that sounds cynical, but the reality is that in our society, there isn’t a majority of people who give off positive energy to everyone around them. Quite the opposite, unfortunately. And those who do, tend to be the ones who are so weighed down by people clinging to them, that they burn out and/or have to retreat to the peace and safety of their own world just to survive.
5. Introverts are socially well adjusted.
Trying to “turn” an introverted person into an extroverted person is detrimental because it gives off a subtle suggestion that there is something wrong with them, hampering their self worth and esteem when there is absolutely nothing wrong in the first place.
It’s been a struggle, but I have to keep reminding myself of this, and there are simply no words for how damned ridiculous that is.
There’s a deeper science to this that involves differences in the levels of brain chemicals such as acetylcholine and dopamine in extroverts and introverts, but I won’t get into that.
The bottom line is that introverts are just wired differently than extroverts. There’s nothing “wrong” with them. They just become energized through different processes depending on where the majority of their brain activity takes place.
Granted there are introverts who may be shy and anti-social, but that’s just a coincidence that perpetuates the myth that ALL introverts are like that.
You’ll find that all introverts are fine just the way they are until people begin to subtly suggest otherwise.
I typically skip past self-help and motivation type websites, but I think I’ll be exploring Brian Kim’s more.
Know what you want to say but not how to say it? Toss me the rough idea and I’ll polish it into efficient and professional copy.
Have a puzzle or challenge? I’m your gal.
Can’t quite put your finger on something that looks or sounds a bit off? I’ll tell you what others see and what they’re probably thinking when they see it.
Does that sound rude and arrogant? Sorry. I’ve just been around the block more than a few times and learned from a lot of really smart people. I’ve been exceptionally lucky.
I get jazzed when I can track down and solve a problem for someone. Being useful for a cause that I believe in motivates me far more than money does (damn it!). The two together give me a tangible energy boost the likes of which I have a hard time finding anywhere else. About the only thing I get asked to do that’s virtually impossible for me, is designing something visual from scratch. I can take a crude start of something for somebody else, and tweak it until it glows, but blank canvases make my brain seize up.
All that being said, I may have mentioned recently that I’m trying to make my own business website.
Sigh….
I wonder if there’s any correlation between my penchant for sarcasm and the perennial theme of irony in my life?
Hmm. Nah… that couldn’t possibly be true, at all. Pfft.
The ONLY thing I’ve been able to accomplish for my own business that I’m anywhere near satisfied with, is the friggin’ graphic! Go figure. I’ve been trying for weeks to draft the organization and the content – two things I can normally do for other people without breaking a sweat – and I’ve got bupkus. Oh, gee, thanks, world. Like making this thing isn’t tough enough, let’s just flip everything assbackwards from what I’ve come to know and rely on.
Doc came in and I shared this *cough* entertaining *cough* realization with him.
“Well then it’s obvious,” he said with a grin. “You just need to hire yourself to do the rest. You’ll have a great website in no time.”
Must not throw laptop at husband… must not throw laptop at husband…. I just got the freaking thing working the way it’s supposed to and I can’t afford another one!
[PS: I'm not even remotely serious with the above title. I already drive myself right bonkers - if there was an actual me in the same room as, well, me, we'd murder each other within the hour. Or would that be suicide? Hmm. See, it's stupid questions like that that would do it.]
I have had the final episodes of “Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip“ sitting on our home server for three and a half months, and I’ve been purposely avoiding them. If pressed to list my top five favourite TV shows of all time it would probably rank first, at least second, so I’ve put off watching them because I don’t want it to end.
But I couldn’t hold out any longer so last night, while the rest of the family draped themselves around the living room and watched the Transformers DVD, I sat cross-legged on our bed, my laptop perched on my knees, and let the last intense storylines bob and weave and carry me along. It made me laugh out loud and sob for almost three straight hours.
It’s weird how much a human body needs that kind of thing sometimes.
After I get some fluids back in me, I might just cry again – this time for the idiocy of what passes for quality entertainment in our society. How is it possible that “According to Jim” is still on the air, but “Studio 60″ isn’t? Jezus, even freaking “Everybody Loves Raymond” got nine years! Gah. Don’t think that that won’t forever baffle me.
Ach, well, I should’ve known from the pilot that it wouldn’t last. It was funny without being stupid. It was controversial and risky for more than just shock value. And it didn’t have a weak leading man being made fun of and disrespected by a strong, condescending woman.
You can’t sell ad time for crap like that.
A long time ago, on a blog far, far away, I wrote a post called “Hey, you” and in it I figuratively told a half dozen or more unspecified people what, in that moment at the keyboard, I would’ve loved to have really said to them but for a variety of reasons couldn’t. There were lines to my kids, to friends, to family, and even to complete strangers who just happened to drive me nuts that day. It felt a bit weird to do, but very therapeutic.
Someone close to me read it in such a hugely different way than I ever could have imagined. Amid the potpourri of rants and rambles, they somehow deduced that my marriage was in trouble. I was utterly stunned.
This sounds corny but it was a defining moment for me. I have always been paranoid about people misinterpreting my intent… misunderstanding ME… but that event was kind of a validation. If one of my best friends, who is normally brilliant and highly perceptive and who had been given more information about my inner workings than easily 90% of the rest of the people in my life… if THEY could still hear things that I wasn’t saying and read meanings into things that I didn’t mean, then… well shit, I basically had only two choices! I’d better either take a vow of silence and become a monk on a mountain somewhere, or try to let go of my fear of being misunderstood (and subsequently judged and rejected based on something that wasn’t me) and learn to just say what I want to say and to hell with the consequences.
Yeah… um, I’m not real strong on the “to hell with the consequences” thing. It’s pretty much in the same class as “fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke”. They’re great skills to have and to pull out when occasion warrants, but for me to try to learn them at this point in life has been like a fourth-grader walking into Advanced Trigonomics.
Buck-ass naked.
With “Duh…” taped to the forehead.
But they say practice makes perfect, so here we go… my most recent version of “Hey, You.”
~ * ~
Hey, you. If you say “Sweetie, I’m so excited about my birthday party!” one more freaking time, you won’t live to see eighteen. I’m all for unbridled excitement and joy but, jeezus, I feel like shaking you. Grow the fuck up.
Hey, you. I know you’re trying to help when you say positive, hopeful, reassuring things. And that’s great – I absolutely believe that it makes a big difference. But sometimes I need to be able to complain and not have it negated right away. If everything is always going to be okay and it’s never allowed to simply suck, then I feel like I have to stuff the pain and frustration down deep inside, and it builds up.
Hey, you. I would accept invitations and spend more time around you if FAKE didn’t ooze out of your mouth every time you opened it.
Hey, you. In my head, in the imaginary conversation where you demand to know what the fuck I was thinking when I wrote those things? I don’t have an answer, and that scares the hell out of me. The closest I can come to hearing one, is that it’s not unlike when you drink. I don’t know if that even makes any sense, let alone if it’s true, but it’s all I’m getting so far. I’m really sorry.
Hey, you. What could possibly have been shoved so far up your ass that you needed to tailgate me all the way along the street and then stop right behind me and freak out when I pulled over before the corner? I. WAS. PARKED. IN. THE. PARKING. LANE. That’s what one does in a parking lane. Stops, and parks. It wasn’t a turning lane. Had I been turning, like you obviously wanted me to do, I would’ve been in a turning lane. It kind of goes with the description. Like shit-for-brains, which I suspect you’ve heard often.
Hey, you. I really wanted to type “brain-dead cunt” instead of “shit-for-brains”, but I’m trying to maintain at least a little class, and be a grown-up.
Hey, you. I didn’t say anything when you told me because I didn’t want to say the wrong thing. I want to believe you, because I want to be able to trust you. But it’s easier to believe that you’re exaggerating the horrific details. If you’re not, I don’t know how to help you, and I very much want to.
Hey, you. Kids aren’t currency. They’re not compromises or paybacks. They’re not indestructible. They’re for more than just 18 years – they’re for an entire lifetime. You’re a better person that this, so please clue in and be a better mother soon, so I don’t have to stop loving you.
Hey, you. I found myself slugging you several times. Ya know, not to cause harm at all, but in affectionate exasperation. Except I hate when women hit men like that! I never do that! At least… I never used to, and not with anyone else. So when I left, I was confused and didn’t like myself much.
Hey, you. The various hired hands that lived next door? They weren’t all safe for me to be hanging around. You should have warned me.
Hey, you. I love you and miss you and wish I could have known you growing up. I’m disappointed that you couldn’t come visit for the summer again but I understand. Just please don’t die before I can hug you once more.
Hey, you. You have sexy legs. Thick, strong, with just the right amount of hair to tickle and tease. Mmm. Yum.
Hey, you. You’re turning 39 – c’mon, say it! Why the hell do you still feel embarrassed that you’re not older? You’re so bloody assbackwards sometimes. You’ve crammed a lot of life experiences into those years, and not just survived but thrived. That’s a serious accomplishment, whether you acknowledge it or not. Learn to cut yourself some slack for chrissakes – you’re entitled to fuck up once in a while.
Hey, you. There is more than just one “you” in this litany; and my marriage is fine, I promise.
~ * ~
I figure I’ll know that I’ve done well when I can actually say things rather than just writing them, or when I don’t feel the urge to say them at all.
Head On, by Cai Gui-Qiang
Deutsche Guggenheim, Berlin 2006
“The installation consists of a pack of 99 life-sized wolves barreling in a continuous stream towards—and into—a constructed glass wall.” Guggenheim
“With few wolves scattered in the front gallery, all ninety-nine wolves run, gallop, and jump toward the far end of the exhibition hall, where a wall stands. The bravery of the wolves is met head on by the unyielding wall. As the leading wolves go down, many more follow with force and determination. As those in the front fall and pile up, those behind take up their positions.” artist site
I’ve had days that felt like that.
As far as art goes, I don’t find this beautiful at all. It’s disturbing in a way that I can’t quite put my finger on. Even though these aren’t real wolves, not even stuffed dead ones, it gives me the heebeejeebees.
Impressive, all the same.
[hat tip to shelton wet/dry]
Interestingly enough, Doc and I also saw Dennis DeYoung in concert this summer. We won free tickets from a radio station to see him at a smaller venue, after we’d forked out the $300 to buy advance spots for the Styx/Def Leppard arena gig. It seemed kinda funny and fateful at the time that we’d get to hear both original Styx singers within a few weeks of each other.
As part of the prize that we won, we also had the opportunity take part in a private Meet & Greet with Dennis DeYoung backstage after the gig.
Right. So. Here’s where I take this post in a direction that may land me in some trouble.
I don’t really “get” the whole meet & greet, have my picture taken with a celebrity, thing. I never have. Truthfully, even autographs are kind of borderline for me. I have ABSOLUTELY NO PROBLEM with people who do this — I can’t stress this enough! Especially since my day job is almost entirely comprised of dealing with these delightful, curious, enthusiastically fanatical creatures. The whole drape yourself all over the guy (regardless of whether you’re male or female), “remember how you and me hung out after that gig in ‘81 when my brother’s dentist’s neighbour introduced us?” reminiscing, strip down and present your bare ass/tit/beer belly for them to autograph while your date grins proudly over your shoulder… it’s all quite fascinating and charm…
Well, no, not always… let’s just stick with “fascinating”, shall we? It’s certainly that, in spades. Which is one of the reasons why I absolutely love my job.
But I don’t get it – I must have been skipping out the day they explained the awesome god power of celebrities to the rest of the class and how if you just rub up against them, then you, too, can get the magical stardust that will make your life a complete utopia like theirs most certainly is.
:: blink ::
When I see a quote-celebrity-unquote, my head might run through the catalogue of information I’ve acquired in my lifetime relating to their work, and it kinda goes something like this:
Know their stuff? Check.
Like it? Check.
Impressed with their ability and respect their hard work? Check.
Cool.
And then that’s about where it simply hangs. Comfortable and complete, in the space between them and me and whatever memories or sensations their work may have aroused for me personally.
I *may*, in some cases, feel tempted to send a brief email to their website with words of appreciation and support, but I’ve only done that twice in my life. I guess to a large degree, I figure that buying the tickets/albums/books/etc says “Hey, dude, well done!” pretty effectively and without imposing on them and their personal lives.
I should probably point out that most celebrities wouldn’t consider hearing that they’re loved and admired by strangers, or that they’ve been a profound influence in the life of someone, or that beautiful people want to have sex with them, as unwelcome impositions. But c’mon, jeez, they’re artists! They… like… intentionally step in front of a mic and into a spotlight and hang their guts out! So, right there, I can’t even begin to relate to that level of insanity.
All that energy and passion that people feel comfortable giving to celebrities? The gushing words of love and adoration, the energetic fan letters, the group hug photos? I can see doing that with friends and family – people who actually share the time and space with you in life. THAT feels logical and natural to me.
But then, having just written that, it occurs to me that maybe some of the fans don’t have that, and these public strangers are those people for them.
Ack… this is tough stuff.
Anyway, we discussed whether or not we’d go to the meet & greet for Dennis DeYoung.
“What would we say?” I asked Doc.
“That we enjoyed the show, ” he answered, “assuming we do. That we like his music. Ya know, the same things fans say to [my bosses] all the time.”
“Uh huh. And after those 30 seconds?”
“I don’t know.”
“Me neither.”
We didn’t go backstage to meet him, and as crazy as some people seem to think that was, I’m just fine with it.
Ach, I already know what it looks like, anyway.
My husband and I took our youngest to his first big arena rock show recently. It was a blast and I’m so grateful that our family relationship is such that he wasn’t creeped out or the slightest uneasy about hanging out with his old-fogey parents at a concert.
Cob may be only 15 but he is a serious music nut, of almost all eras and genres, and he and his dad routinely run through trivia and song titles for the last 30 years, easily leaving me in the dust. It was a total hoot for Doc and I to watch our son’s face when the familiar songs blasted over the massive sound system, and the light show hit its stride, and the floor vibrated, and the thunder of the crowd steamrollered over us, and the distinct smell of contraband substance wafted from a row or two away, completing the experience.
One of the all-time best decisions ever made in rock and roll?
The hiring of Lawrence Gowan to replace Dennis DeYoung in Styx.
Brilliance.
I remember when the rumour went around years ago that he was going on tour with them. I instantly “heard” the combination in my head and said, “Oh, yeah. Totally. Perfect match.” And it is.
Headliner Def Leppard was fine, but I would’ve happily told them to just stay in the bus, and kept the openers on for the whole night. Gowan owned the stage and managed to be a total and entertaining star, without the rest of Styx getting lost in the shadows. They played a great mix of songs and gave equal mic time to both Tommy Shaw and Gowan, but then when they launched into “A Criminal Mind” in the middle of the Styx catalogue… well, I was blown away. VERY classy move.
Of course, it doesn’t hurt that Gowan’s darkly growled classic lyric, “I am”, has made me groan and melt for over twenty years. Yowsers….
I feel that I need to preface this by saying that we’re responsible pet owners, and we would never, ever, harm or mistreat an innocent creature.
We have, however, been known to find great entertainment and fun in watching their confusion and frustration.
(Much of the above could be said about us as parents, too, come to think of it.)
Karl has a cool new fishtank. I like it. It makes me yearn a wee bit to have one of our own again. Whenever I’m in a pet store, I have to be very careful not to get seduced back into the land of aquariums. I’ve come close at times, just looking at all the accessories, and tanks, and fish, and imagining the therapeutic minature worlds of living art that I could create…
… but luckily I snap back to reality and remember how damned much work and money it all is.
But this… THIS I WANT:
Birdcage inside a fish tank
Except I’d have to modify it to have a cat cage inside the bird cage inside the fish tank. It would drive our little mopheaded kitten absolutely bonkers. Of course, we’d set it all up beside the dog crate, so our mutt could watch her little buddy go nuts and join in the fun.
The circle of life, people - the circle of life.
I was physically abused and sexually molested by an older brother when I was a little girl. He was a teenager and plenty old enough to know better. I don’t know how young I was but, doing some quick math, I would have been seven at the very most.
I have only one memory, albeit a clear one, of the molestation. I’m assuming that it happened only once, but I still have large chunks of my childhood that are blank to me, and the process of unveiling and dealing with them has been a tedious and painful one, so I don’t really know. Yet.
It was the first time that I was seriously affected by someone who I thought I could trust, and who was “supposed” to be there for me and protect me (what’s more cliché when it comes to protective than a big brother to a baby sister?). But it certainly hasn’t been the only time that I’ve felt disappointed by lack of help and safety. It’s been a predominant theme in my life, but there’s no way of knowing how much of the experiences that I went on to have with other people, both as a child and, even now, as an adult, stem from that initial childhood betrayal.
Which, as a parent myself now, is a pretty freaking terrifying thought, isn’t it? How one tiny moment in a lifetime huge with moments might seriously fuck with a child far beyond our understanding or control. Eep!
For a very long time I didn’t really have to deal with the issue in any significant way, because that brother was fairly estranged from the rest of the family. I told my mother, once, about the incident, and she shared that she had caught one of her brothers doing the same to one of her younger sisters once.
That’s about all I remember from the brief conversation, except my intense regret afterward for ever saying anything to her about it. I mean, it was decades after the fact, so telling her only caused her pain and probably made her feel bad as a mother – it couldn’t change anything at all, right? It was unforgivably selfish of me and I should’ve just kept my big mouth shut. The brother never had kids of his own, as far as I know he was never around children to any degree, and I’m pretty sure that it was only me that he did anything to… after all, not only was I safe, but I was handy, too.
So… what was the bloody point of ever saying anything to anyone? Stupid, Heather, stupid, stupid, stupid…. He’s my brother. It was long ago. Maybe he doesn’t even remember it himself. I turned out just fine. No big deal. Let it go.
The mind is the most powerful muscle you have – it will twist things however you want it to. Unfortunately, it also leaves a really messy and confusing pile of knots.
My brother’s wife died a little over a year ago and since then he has started to become much more involved and closer to the family than he ever was before. Throughout the years – even when he was distant – I made far more effort than anyone else to maintain a relationship and some lines of communication with him because, well… because…
Because I’m the only girl, and I’m the problem solver, and I’m the sensitive but sensible one, and….
Basically, because it was my role in our family – my responsibility. Somewhere, deep in my psyche, I believed that. And I believed that I was ultimately a better person for putting the past in the past, chalking up a single wee memory as a mere glitch, and acting like nothing ever happened. I’ll admit it: sometimes I even feel rather smug and superior that I’m so goddamned mature and evolved.
I phoned my parents recently to see how they were doing and I learned that he was there visiting with them, with his new girlfriend. My mum said that my name had come up and his girlfriend had asked about his relationship with me growing up and he had joked, in typical older brother fashion, about how he’d changed my diapers. Mom said that she didn’t think he had ever done so, and she shared all this with me conversationally. Then she asked if I wanted to talk to him next, since he was there.
I wanted to be an adult. I wanted to not let a joking remark that wasn’t even really relevant, let alone true, and was only heard third-person, have any effect on me at all.
But I couldn’t. So I declined.
How crazy and ironic life is, eh? When I was a vulnerable, insecure, little girl, I put on a brave face and never said a word about it, and I was completely fine and comfortable with that. I suffered through bruises and insults just to be close to him and try to earn my family’s – and his – approval.
Now that I’m a strong, confident, adult woman and he can’t hurt me any more, I want to have nothing to do with him, but I can’t seem to justify that in my own head. And more and more often a small little voice inside wants to throw a big, childish, selfish, totally useless tantrum, and scream out, “Don’t you know what he did to me? Why didn’t anyone protect me? Why can’t you be strong for me when I really need somebody?!? How can you people still not care?!?”
So… there.
I hope this does something useful.
I don’t feel anything happening yet.
I have a dirty secret: I enjoy well-written erotica. I even took a crack (shush) at writing a romance novel once, because it seemed like the easiest of all options and it was the closest I could get to producing erotica for money and still be able to tell my mother what I was doing. But even at that, romance novels these days are nothing like the True Story Magazines she used to hide between her mattresses.
I joined a writers group and put some serious effort into it but eventually abandoned the idea because: a) I couldn’t think worth a damn with post-MVA headaches, and b) my heart wasn’t really in it from the start. Everything in the mainstream successful romance novels just seems way too hokey or cutesy for my current tastes, and I’m nowhere near talented enough to write in a style that I don’t enjoy.
In all the workshops and lectures I attended, and in all the books I studied, no one ever said a peep about The Glittery HooHa.
They should teach this in junior high health class. It explains SO much that has baffled me about men and the shit they let women get away with.
(found on ErosBlog)
