personality types

I’d been labeling people all my life, so nothing really surprised me anymore. For every unique soul out there, there were hundreds of others, all perfectly matched, and secure in their exclusive individuality. I’d be willing to bet that if you got to know every single person on Earth at any given time, there would be a finite number of personality types, the masses within them differentiable only by age, shape, and name.

There are the Superficials, of course, that lucky group that goes through life making small talk on airplanes and finding inexplicable joy in grocery store samples and Mary Englebright calendars. That group flies in contrast to the Burdened Souls, who can’t stop to enjoy simple pleasures because they’re too deeply troubled by famine and wars happening halfway around the world. There are the Argumentatives, perpetually using flawed logic to poke holes in even the most obvious truth, and answering any dissent with “but that’s your opinion.” Then there are the YesSirs, forever picking up the slack for those around them because their lips are seemingly incapable of forming the word “no.” There were the Happily Coupled Offs and the Sad Singles, the Slackers and the Work-Obsessed, the Conservatives and the Eclectics, the Brightsiders and the World-Owes-Mes. I’d met them all, so meeting a new person never made me anxious. I’d been here a hundred times before.

When I first saw Karen, she seemed to be an Overly Excited. She’d walked into the party and approached a group of blondes, who all started screeching and hugging in that way that girls do when they haven’t seen each other in several hours. Immediately annoyed, I’d written her off and turned my attention to my then-girlfriend, Amanda. Amanda was a Social Clinger, the kind of girlfriend who stays silently at your side and observes for the duration of a party. At times, she was incredibly inconvenient, but she didn’t leave home too often, so it worked for me. That night, she followed me from room to room, alternating smiles and scowls, depending on who I was speaking to. At 10pm, she whispered to me that she was going to leave, and we went through the motions, neither of us meaning the words we said. “I’ll come with you”—“No, it’s fine, stay”—“Are you sure? I’m happy to leave.”—“No, stay, it’s fine.”—“Okay. I’ll miss you.”—“Good night.”

In 5 minutes, I was free. Enter Karen.

She was waiting at the bar when I spotted her the second time, and conveniently, she was alone. Leaving my already-full drink on the table, I approached, and used the smooth line I’d been practicing since college: “Hey.”

“Hey,” she replied, glancing over her shoulder at me.
“Can I buy you a drink?” How cliché.
“Sure. Vodka tonic.”
“Nice.” I was a conversational genius today. Amazingly, though, it worked. We chatted a bit more before she got straight to the point.
“You want to get out of here?” she asked, tucking a stray curl behind her ear.
“Yes. Yes I do.”
“Great. Let me get my coat.”

She walked away and my mind started going. We’d go back to her place, since Amanda was at mine. She’d offer me some wine and sit down on the couch. We’d talk awhile longer. She’d lean in, saying she was cold. I’d make a lame joke about knowing how to make some heat. She’d kiss me, we’d head back to the bedroom… (End scene).

Afterwards, I’d head home, distracted, not wanting the night to end. I’d sleep on the couch, so as not to wake Amanda, and in the morning, I’d find the first excuse I could to get out of the house. I’d call Karen and we’d make plans for that night. We’d meet at a bar, and she’d look amazing. Everything about her would be exciting and mysterious, and we’d have one too many drinks and end up at her place again. This time, I’d spend the night. Later that week, we’d meet up again, and again, and sooner or later she’d want more. She’d ask me to leave Amanda, and I’d be so smitten that I would. Only the second I did, our fling would go from a forbidden scandal to a regular relationship, filled with obligations and nagging and doing laundry together. And after a week or so, I’d be gasping for air, Karen would be the Social Clinger, and I’d be scanning the party for something new.

“Alright, ready to go?” Karen came back, wearing a coat and holding her car keys. Only now, I wasn’t ready to go. I’d already lived our whole story, and I wasn’t excited about her anymore.
Still, the hopeful side of my brain assured me that this time, things would be different, so I only said “Okay,” and let her lead me out the door.