In the wake of yesterday’s post about the magic (to me, at least) of the fax machine, Jess reminded me that, early in our courtship, we actually flirted by fax.
Below, a cover page I made up for the Newman / Gold Paint-by-Numbers Gallery, an inside joke I can no longer recall nor explain:
And then, a good illustration of why we ended up together. Inexplicably, Jess apprended this to one of her counter-faxes, with the caption “I couldn’t leave this out. I just love a good mugshot.”
As Jess is a Libra, and I a Cancer, it’s not entirely clear that we’re a good match, horoscopically speaking.
However, also according to my horoscope, as a Cancer I should be quiet and withdrawn. Which pretty much blows my faith in the whole thing.
On the other hand, I do put real stock in the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator, which nails me to a ‘t’:
ENTPs are quick to see complex interrelationships between people, things, and ideas. These interrelationships are analyzed in profound detail, resulting in an in-depth understanding of the way things and relationships work, and how they can be improved. To the ENTP, competence and intelligence are particularly prized, both in themselves and in other people.
ENTPs are frequently described as clever, cerebrally and verbally quick, enthusiastic, outgoing, innovative, flexible, loyal and resourceful. ENTPs are motivated by a desire to understand and improve the world they live in. They are usually accurate in sizing up a situation. They may have a perverse sense of humor and sometimes play devil’s advocate, which can create misunderstandings with friends, coworkers, and family. ENTPs are ingenious and adept at directing relationships between means and ends. ENTPs “think outside the box,” devising fresh, unexpected solutions to difficult problems. However, they are less interested in generating and following through with detailed plans than in generating ideas and possibilities. When ENTPs are used correctly on a team, they offer deep understanding and a high degree of flexibility and problem solving ability. The ENTP regards a comment like “it can’t be done” as a personal challenge, and, if properly motivated, will spare no expense to discover a solution.
So I was particularly interested when Jess took a Myers-Briggs test herself, and came up an INFJ:
INFJs are conscientious and value-driven. They seek meaning in relationships, ideas, and events, with an eye toward better understanding themselves and others. Using their intuitive skills, they develop a clear vision, which they then execute decisively to better the lives of others.
INFJs are quiet, private individuals who prefer to exercise their influence behind the scenes. Although very independent, INFJs are intensely interested in the well-being of others. INFJs prefer one-on-one relationships to large groups. Sensitive and complex, they are adept at understanding complicated issues and driven to resolve differences in a cooperative and creative manner. INFJs have a rich, vivid inner life, which they may be reluctant to share with those around them. Nevertheless, they are congenial in their interactions, and perceptive of the emotions of others. Generally well-liked by their peers, they may often be considered close friends and confidants by most other types. However, they are guarded in expressing their own feelings, especially to new people, and so tend to establish close relationships slowly.
INFJs tend to be easily hurt, though they may not reveal this except to their closest companions. INFJs may “silently withdraw as a way of setting limits,” rather than expressing their wounded feelings–a behavior that may leave others confused and upset. INFJs tend to be sensitive, quiet leaders with a great depth of personality. They are intricately and deeply woven, mysterious, and highly complex, sometimes puzzling even to themselves. They have an orderly view toward the world, but are internally arranged in a complex way that only they could understand. Abstract in communicating, they live in a world of hidden meanings and possibilities. With a natural affinity for art, INFJs tend to be creative and easily inspired.
Also dead on.
Which is particularly good news, because, though we may be astrologically star-crossed, according to Myers-Briggs analysis, ENTP and INFJ types are instead ‘natural partners’, as strong a fit as you can find.
If you’re similarly self-fascinated, take a fast Myers-Briggs inventory yourself, and see where you end up.
She said yes.
Jess, on reading that I’d be posting regularly again:
“They’re all going to be about me, right?”
If I’m smart, yes.
Ring shopping.
Holy crap.
[I am a story repeater. Mainly because I have terrible, terrible memory for what I’ve said, when, and to whom. But also because some stories are too good to give up.
So, though I briefly blogged it in the past, though I recounted it on the first episode of my and Sarah Brown’s podcast, when Chicken Soup for the Twenty-Something Soul contacted me for a submission, I had no choice but to retell my infamous beans-throwing date.]
Shortly after I moved to New York City, I met a girl at an art gallery. She worked for the gallery, I was there for the opening of a friend’s show, and we hit it off making jokes about the snottier-looking patrons.
I asked her out on a first date. To play things safe, I pushed for early evening drinks. That way, if the date went badly, I could keep it short; if it went well, I could *still* keep it short, end on a high note, and leave her wanting more.
Fortunately, the first date – at a Gatbsy-esque bar in Midtown – went off without a hitch. So it was with high hopes that I headed to our second date, dinner at a trendy Mexican restaurant on the Upper East Side.
That date, too, started strong. Until the waiter didn’t bring us our basket of chips quickly enough.
“This is ridiculous,” the girl exclaimed. Ridiculous? We were talking about *chips*. No big deal.
But to her, apparently, it *was* a big deal. So, after two or three more chip-less minutes, she got up, found the waiter, and yelled. Then, for good measure, and at ever-escalating volume, she found the manager and yelled at him, too.
By this point, it was immensely clear that my date had absolutely zero relationship potential. I had somehow found the highest maintenance girl in all of New York City. But I vividly remember thinking, “I’m out of college, I’m an adult now; I should at least be civil, and make it through the rest of the evening.”
I thought, perhaps, that a round of margaritas might help calm things down.
I was wrong.
By now, of course, the waiter hated us. My date had yelled in his face, had gotten him in trouble with the manager. So, not surprisingly, he was a bit rude. To which, in response, my date was even ruder. Over the course of appetizers and a few more drinks, the situation continued to devolve.
The waiter delivered our main courses with a snide comment. My date said something in reply. Back and forth they went, until something he said crossed her final line.
My date picked up her plate of beans. And threw them at the waiter.
She was seated on my left, the waiter stood to my right. So the beans flew, as if in slow motion, right in front of my face.
I remember wondering, beans mid-air, what might happen on impact. Would the waiter punch her? Punch me? Throw something back, leaving me smack in the middle of a giant food fight?
With a splat, the beans hit, and the world caught up to speed. The waiter, however, didn’t. He stood there in shock, a mass of pintos slowly dripping down the front of his shirt.
My date stood up.
“Well, I never!” she declared. And she walked out.
This was a small restaurant – maybe twenty tables. By this point, every single patron was staring at me.
“Get out!” the manager bellowed. “And never come back.”
Mortified, I backed my way slowly across the floor, apologizing profusely – to the waiter, to the manager, to anyone still willing to make eye contact.
I opened the front door, stepped outside, and found the girl standing there, fuming.
“Well,” she said, “where are we going next?”
At which point, I turned, and started running down Lexington Avenue as fast as I could. And I still remember thinking, finally looking back over my shoulder a few blocks later, “well, at least she doesn’t have my phone number.”
Jess: I read your post for yesterday.
Me: And?
Jess: [Shrugs]
Me: I know. I’m having trouble coming up with good topics to write about.
Jess: You should probably just write all your posts about how beautiful I am.
Despite her protestations that – beyond even its apparent commercialization – Valentine’s Day is a Christian Pagan holiday in which a couple of Jewish kids such as ourselves have no part, and despite her having to live with me (which, honestly, I couldn’t imagine doing either) for the past month or two, Jess has nonetheless agreed to be my Valentine.
On our evening docket: a play, a home cooked dinner, and perhaps some serious floor scrubbing (both of us being just OCD enough to consider that an oddly delightful and gratifying pursuit). All of which sounds just perfect to me, and reminds me of some great advice I once received: the secret to a happy relationship is less finding someone with no baggage, and more finding someone with whom your own makes a nicely matched set.
Over the past few months, as I found myself spending more and more time with Jess, I also found more and more of her stuff migrating its way into my apartment. My shower – which formerly contained one shampoo, one face wash, and one body wash – exploded with a proliferation of indistinguishable bottles, tubs and tubes. Dresses, shirts and shoes began to crowd my closet. Books and books and more books and magazines began to appear bedside and on shelves and windowsills.
All of which, actually, made perfect sense – my bed being more comfortable than hers, we were spending pretty much every night together in my place, and it seemed silly for her to head back continually to hers just to pick up clothing and other odds and ends.
So, when we determined that her lease was ending at the end of this month, we decided to simply cut to the chase and move in together.
I repeat: we are moving in together. Or, rather, we more or less already have; after countless duffel bag trips by taxi throughout December, nearly everything she wants to keep is now here in my / our apartment.
Nonetheless, the point of this entry isn’t Jess moving in, but rather her (temporarily) heading back out. As her sister is home from college, Jess trained up yesterday to Boston to spend time with her family for the week. And I, in turn, with my parents in from California, am staying here in New York to wrangle my own kin – immediate and extended.
So, now, my apartment is back to the way it was before – just me. And as much as it’s the moving in together that seems like it should be a big deal, should be totally freaking me out, it’s the being here by myself that actually seems strange, not quite right.
Which, when I think about, is probably an excellent sign.
Far and away, Thanksgiving is the most important day of the year. Or so it would seem from the weight placed upon the holiday by my mother. Skip heading home to California for nearly any other event, and she won’t bat an eye. But my brother or I miss Thanksgiving dinner? That’s a hanging offense.
So, per usual, I’m off to San Francisco to eat turkey. This year, however, I’m dragging Jess in tow. Because while I’ve met her parents a few times (due to their proximity in nearer Boston), she’s yet to meet mine.
I’ve gone back and forth between thinking that this week is a wonderful or a terrible time for that first meet-up, unsure whether the collective preparatory push of cooking and cleaning and table-setting will give us something to focus on other than the inherent weird awkwardness, or simply leave everyone even further on stressed-out edge, compounding the mess of it all.
Whichever it is, however, we land in SFO in about an hour; it seems I’ll soon find out.