Hello, dear blog. It's me.
Let's see; how's life lately...
It's the bazillionth rainy day in a row down here. I think it's been raining on and off since early December.
So much for my hazy plan to get back to walking.
But that's okay, I've been writing too much to tear myself away from the computer anyway.
Keith, in an effort to get me out of the house, told me that we were going bowling with another couple.
No one understands introverts. I think there should be sensitive posters and ads on TV, in an effort to educate the extroverted, who have this terrible tendency to assume that they and only they are the correct model of human social behavior.
Do I sound bitter? It's only because I had to go bowling.
Also, my wardrobe is terrible. I can tell at a glance that I am old, when I look at my clothing. My clothing continues muted, sensible and tailored, while fashion rips out seams, tears hems, stitches random pockets about itself, goes prancing around in large shirts printed with elephants, clouds, the red cross symbol and wears red tights.
So, anyway, about bowling. I had this one shirt, that I bought under the influence of a friend passing through, and then never wore, because it is of a shade of neon pink that could stop traffic and has ruffles that sits low at the hips and ruffles at the elbows and yet more ruffles around the loose neckline.
That's just way too many ruffles, but in desperation, I wore that, and jeans and heels and my husband's eyes kept following me as I moved, clickingly, around the house. He was probably dazzled by the pink.
We stopped at the door. He looked me up and down and then grinned.
"That's right," he said, smugly. "I married you. I feel like I won something..."
I am not a good bowler. I never did catch on to this, myself, but apparently my entire body swings sideways as I let go of the ball. All I know is, I kept throwing it into the right gutter, even when I stood all the way to the left side.
Also the ball was ridiculously heavy and my hand felt broken by the end of the night. Also, news flash, I can't make small talk.
This is all because I am an INFP on the Myers-Briggs Personality Test.
They say, and I quote:
"INFPs are usually talented writers. They may be awkward and uncomfortable with
expressing themselves verbally, but have a wonderful ability to define and
express what they're feeling on paper."
-The Personality Type Portraits
In my case, I think they can safely drop the "may" in the second sentence.
So it's not my fault if I could only sit on the ice cold plastic chairs and sip my Corona and not have any idea what to say. I can't help it if I'm an INFP; I was born that way.
Fortunately, my husband makes enough noise, and bowling points, for the two of us. At least this time he did not type in "Sexy Tank" for his player name.
The sun has come out, as I've been writing. I think I may wrap this up and get out of the house, introvert-style.
Then I have to get back into the swing of writing the adoption print pamphlet. My goal is to have the entire thing finished and submitted by the end of this week.
To that end, I am committed to working on it for two hours every day.
Also, I really need some new clothes.