Have you heard of type ‘A’ and ‘B’ personalities?
I’ll answer for you.
(Remember, there are no dumb questions.)
*Type ‘A’ personalities are usually described as perfectionists, overachievers, workaholics, and have a strong sense of time urgency, etc.
*Type ‘B’ people are procrastinating drinkers. I’m kidding. They’re described as non-competitive, non-aggressive, and lack a compulsion to meet deadlines–my first statement about the latter type was at least half-true.
This is where I tell you that I married a resounding type ‘A’. My husband is a little OCD, like every drawer and closet is color coded down to the progression of shades. He is also extremely ambitious, the kind that shoots past pie in the sky, beyond the moon, stars, and Mars, and can somehow see into the next galaxy, and when it’s time to leave the house, he usually is in the car, ready to go, at least
an hour twenty minutes before me.
Can you see where I’m going with this? (I retract my earlier statement. Yes, there are dumb questions.)
Obviously, I’m a ‘B’ personality, self-proclaimed fun one. Actually, I’m an enigma (wrapped in a riddle..and cash…and I watch way too much RHOBH). Seriously, run away from this blog post now.
Not wanting to completely commit, I float somewhere in the middle, flitting between the polar opposites of ‘A’ and ‘B’ based off which side looks like their having more fun. Examples: I feel compelled by laundry deadlines, but then I officially join Twitter and lose a week of my life stalking Blake Shelton, because it’s fun and a completely normal thing to do. Or I know I have to get up early for something, set my alarm, get in bed early and then end up staying up till 4 a.m. reading a book I refuse, despite my better judgement, to put down.
Usually, I lie to Trav and say that I had ‘insomnia’ when my eyelids refuse to open the next morning and he’s sweet enough to let me believe I’ve fooled him.
I confess, I’m mostly never an ‘A’ except for one exception. Projects. Like a giant doll house (the kind for AG dolls) your children get for Christmas from their Grammi that has to be assembled. Only then am I a raging, hormonal, stressed-out type ‘A’.
Toy. Building. You know the struggle is real. Just getting a simple toy out of the packaging (the kind with twenty zip ties, seven pieces of tape, and two screws, all for one Dora figurine) is the worst. We’ve all been there.
So when Trav opened the doll house box that we barely got up the staircase together, I should have seen the writing on the wall. When he stared down at 489 pieces labeled things like A1 and Z39, I should of seen the writing on the wall.
“You’re joking, right?” His voice falls completely flat.
This is where I tell you that 1. He’d do anything for his beauties. 2. He enjoys putting their toys together and doesn’t even complain about toys with seven obstacles you must complete before it comes out of the packaging.
But the truth is, he’s a realist. He knows our ‘work together’ history. Put two crazy ‘A’s together and people are going to have to call back. You cannot have two Presidents running one country. Bad things will happen, like declaring war against one another with the same army.
“It will be fine.” I smile, ever the optimist/dreamer, showing every tooth in my mouth so my statement is more believable. (then I say, “I better go get a screwdriver” and then run down to the kitchen, swallow a shot of tequila, and race back up the stairs with no one the wiser—clearly a type ‘B’ move.)
Thirty minutes into construction, Trav and I are killing it. Like I’m half working on the doll house, half daydreaming about us entering ‘The Amazing Race’ because we could have a real chance at winning it. We’re communicating as a team like bona-fide adults; the sailing is smooth.
(this is where I insert horror music, think Halloween movies) And along comes piece J, when Trav, the perfectionist, spots a seam in the doll house that is not an exact 90 degree angle and all hell breaks loose.
After a tiny spat (“Let me see the directions, I can read, Sarah.” “No, you can’t Travis. Instructions are your nemesis.” “Seriously, who says that?”), along with a few choice words (re-reading the directions to him in a louder, more serious tone, then following up with—”THAT IS WHAT IT SAYS. LOOK!”), random pieces being thrown, maybe at each other, I won–which means Travis committed treason and deserted his country, and I sat and sulked till he came back and I told him he was actually the President and in charge.
Magically, the doll house (in all its perfect perfection, thanks to Trav) managed to be completed, without damage, hours later and we still love each other, mostly.
Lesson #357 in our 11 years of marriage: Pay the extra money to have Toysrus put the doll house together. #358 Never sign up for ‘The Amazing Race.’
Sometimes, (like how he doesn’t call me out for reading all 24 chapters in one night) you have to let your husband win the ego battle, it just is.
p.s. This is where I tell you we are the perfect couple, we never fight, I don’t drink tequila, and we have a real, live unicorn in our backyard and you believe it.
p.p.s. The hours (and the bickering) putting the doll house together was worth one second of watching the beauties play with it, all four of them together.
Be still my heart.