Merry Christmas, Crazies! (A Serious Myers–Briggs Study)

Dec 21st, 2015 | By | Category: Columns

I recently read a cute little essay entitled, “I Pretend to Be an Introvert, But I’m Really Just Kind of a Dick.” Ha! I thought it was brilliant, because lately I’ve noticed this terrible trend of people claiming introversion without actually knowing what the word means. It usually occurs after some poor public display or passive-aggressive behavior. “Well, I’m an introvert,” they say. And I think, no you’re not. You’re just being an asshole and this is your excuse.

As I’ve always understood it, an introvert is someone who expends energy from social situations while an extrovert is someone who gains energy from social situations. It has nothing to do with one being social or anti-social! I consider myself a social introvert. I love telling and hearing stories, loud parties and intimate conversations with a good friend. I enjoy meeting new people. But unlike my extroverted counterparts, it tires me out. And when I’ve had enough, I need alone-time to recuperate.

This always come up during the holidays when social obligations are numerous. I take this into consideration, especially with my family. Many years ago, we all took the Meyers-Briggs Personality Test. I can’t remember what the rest of my family scored, but I was an INFP. Even my mother agreed that this type fit me perfectly. And then, we proceeded through more forced-bonding to the point where I thought I was going to shrivel up and die.

Anyway, I love personality tests and I like family gatherings. So, after careful analysis, I am able to gift you all with an assessment of your own Christmas holiday behavior based on your Meyers-Briggs personality type. Enjoy:


You say, “Ohmygoodness! You made all this food? This is the grandest ham I’ve ever seen! Holy crap, these potatoes are to die for! I didn’t even think I could like green bean casserole! What do you mean this cake is from scratch? Wow!” Back at home, the instructions on the mac ‘n cheese box perplex you.


You realize this is the season of togetherness. You should come with wine, presents and lots of smiles. You know you have the perfect Christmas spirit within you. But you are looking at all these people and realize you are in hell.


You spend hours making everything perfect. The tree is decorated to perfection, the stocking hung with care, every present wrapped and you’ve spent all afternoon cooking the Christmas goose. But you forgot the tinsel. So, you chug a half-glass of eggnog before locking yourself in the bathroom crying that the whole holiday is ruined.


Your first Christmas away from home, you accept an invitation to spend the holiday meal at your friend’s apartment. You’re not sure who that scruffy looking gentleman is across the table from you, but you’re sure he’s giving you flirty eyes. At the first opportunity, you follow him into the kitchen, bat your eyes, lean in close and say, “The fall of the patriarchy will be swift and without mercy.” You leave, giggling.


The whole family is together and you have sculpted the perfect mashed potato castle decorated with peas and then you turn to your dad and ask where babies come from. You’re thirty-six years old.


Doesn’t cook the ham. Just stares at it with sheer desire for it to cook itself before crawling into bed and waiting for the entire stupid holiday to be over.


Two glasses of wine in and you’re standing at your seat, explaining the hierarchy of plated dishes through the philosophical lens of Michel Foucault. Aunt Rose meekly says, “I kind of understand the whole crime and punishment angle, but what does S&M have to do with any of it?” You smile and say, “Everything.”


Your family is gathered around the tree, handing out Christmas presents. Before your younger brother prepares to open his, you grab his gift and yell out, “The diamonds will finally be mine!” and dash out of the room.


Step one: preheat oven. Step two: gin & tonic. Step three: wash and cut veggies. Step four: gin & tonic. Step five: put the ham on the counter. Step six: gin. Step seven: more gin. Step eight: where did you put the butter? Step nine: more gin. Step ten: realize Christmas dinner isn’t for two more days. Start over.


This year, you decided to write a letter to Krampus instead.


You often get Christmas Mass confused with a Steampunk Convention. No explanation given. No explanation needed.


Apparently none of your friends wish to combine the Secret Santa gift exchange with strip poker. *sigh*


The holiday season is such a stressful one. There’s so much to do. You need to get your teeth whitened, lose twenty pounds to accommodate the ten you’ll gain, get a facial and some plastic surgery if warranted. Your neck must be properly moisturized for at least a month ahead of time. Then, with your painted on smile, you narrate what everyone is doing … the entire f*cking night!


Your children often refer to you as Grýla. And you enjoy ripping out the goose guts right in front of them.


You show up at your parents’ home with your own immersion blender, a tofu-duck and the wrapped gift they should have gotten you. You are not ashamed.


Every year, you make a bargain with yourself that you will be on your best behavior. And then, in the first few minutes, you try to get your family to guess how many co-workers you’ve slept with over the past twelve months.

Happy Holidays. You’re all crazy!


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