Introversion

I happened to turn on the news last night; I guess it was a sort of Sunday Magazine more than normal news. I was soon hooked by a segment on introversion. They started with a test. There were seven items. I remember two: are you a listener or a talker, and, do you tend to not know what to say in social situations. That last one wasn't exactly the way that it was put, but that was the general idea.

The results were predictable. At this stage of life, or any other, I suppose, I don't really need test results to tell me that I am introverted. However, I think I was a little surprised to be such a full-blown case because I think that I came down rather solidly on the introvert's side on all seven questions.

Just last week, at line dancing, I found myself in a typical situation. I was seated between two groups of people and was part of neither group really ... or both ... take your pick. What I was doing was listening to first one group and then the other. That has occurred to me often, for I am much more of a listener than a talker. And that's typical of the introvert. They did say that introverts can be quite adept at talking on-subject: able to carry on a meaningful conversation with substance but not so good at small talk or starting up a conversation that has lagged.

Although, they couldn't get into the topic in huge detail in a ten-minute segment, I begin to suspect that such personality traits can affect how we learn. For example: I can't seem to learn a new line dance in a group situation. Rather, I seem to need to take the steps home and process them in my own way — at my own speed and in my own time. And I seem to see a similar thing occurring with my fiddle lessons. If I am introduced to a new concept, and it can be quite simple, it seems to fluster me. However, when I take it home, I am very likely to get the hang of it without too much trouble.

According to this program, about twenty-five per cent of us are introverts, and it is often seen as almost a stigma or disadvantage. People don't always understand us or may think that we're stand-offish or stuck-up, but that's hardly the case.

I'd like to follow-up on this a little bit. One of the two people that they interviewed, Marti Olsen Laney, has written a book called The Introvert Advantage. The other, Brian Little, is a professor at McGill in Montreal and previously at Harvard. In the video clips of his lectures, you would not likely have guessed that he is an introvert, but he explained that we introverts can gear up for the task but would tend to need more recuperative time afterward. (I found this pdf about Professors Little at canada.com.)

This idea of introverts needing recuperative time was new to me, but it makes sense. In my last few years of teaching, I often felt it very important to shut my door for ten or twenty minutes at lunch time and bask in the luxury of some quiet moments before the next onslaught. I suppose this would be anathema to many of my pedagogical compatriots who would make a beeline for the staff room and the comfort of a social situation, perhaps venting their morning's concerns rather than meditating quietly as I would. That's not to say that I am such a hermit that I would avoid the staff room entirely. In fact, I'd probably head there for a while after I had enjoyed my respite of solitude.

I rather suspect that more than twenty-five per cent of bloggers might be introverts. We're better at writing in our space than talking in shared space.

Here is an excerpt from the article about Brian Little on canada.com.

After a lecture, he often escapes to a washroom, where he finds an empty cubicle, sits down, pulls up his feet so nobody can find him, and takes a long moment to reflect ... the washroom retreats bring momentary peace and restore Little's true nature.

"He once explained this to Peter Gzowski on CBC's Morningside, telling the famous radio host: "After a talk, I'm in cubicle nine." Gzowski confessed that, after a show, 'I'm in cubicle eight.' "

... It's a fine balance, he says, because introverts do make good professors -- or radio hosts -- attuned as they are to other people's cues, constantly scanning the room to make sure they haven't lost anyone.

... The risk is that they can burn out, because in a sense you're acting out of character. That's why we really need those restorative niches. When you're 'on' with that degree of intensity, I think you would burn out very quickly, unless you're able to find those quiet moments on your own.

Baby Thoughts

Here I am, where I often am in the morning, reading blogs and, occasionally, looking out the window. I expect to see weather out there this morning, but I don't. So far today, yet another weather warning is bypassing us. The Weather Network has been predicting freezing rain this morning, but it had better happen soon because morning is slipping rapidly away. If freezing rain doesn't eventuate, I hope that their next prediction does — warmer weather beginning with some normal rain this afternoon. Please may it be so.

Speaking of blogs, I just read Pearl's most recent post, Born That Way?, which was mainly a link to Nordette's, Are babies really born a blank slate? Of course they're not, but these blogs caused memories to surface.

With Smudge's arrival only a month away, I have been wondering what she'll be like. Will she be a placid little thing like her mother or a going-concern like her daddy, or will be be something altogether different? Will she be a quiet, doll-loving girl like Mom, or a more active sports-minded girl like Auntie? The differences between the two are rather remarkable and the type of thing which Nordette spoke of with her two kids.

Saturday morning is not the time to write a complete history, but let me share one difference between mom-to-be, Thesha (which is what I now propose to call daughter #1 who has previously been known as Butterfly), and Althegal (daughter #2, previously Bug or Lady Bug).

When we first got Thesha home on Christmas Day way back then in the mists of time, we were soon totally flummoxed. She wasn't at all happy, and we didn't know what to do with her. Rocking her, changing her, attempting to feed her produced no results. Then, MIL arrived with Christmas dinner and much expertise. That was one time that I was glad to see MIL, and she didn't disappoint. She took the disconsolate Thesha upstairs and came back down alone in ten or twenty minutes or whatever. Baby was asleep. Young parents were greatly relieved.

MIL explained the proper way to handle this baby. Wrap and hold her very tightly and rock her furiously as if you were trying to timewarp her, you and rocking chair into the next century. Strange but true! It worked a like a charm with Thesha. For whatever reason, it was exactly what she wanted. When we'd take her for walks in her carriage, we would furiously bounce it and her up and down ... and she'd be lulled to sleep.

Six years later, baby #2, Althegal, joined our family. We soon discovered that all babies were not the same. When I first wrapped Althegal tightly and began to rock frenetically, her petrified and frantic screaming quickly alerted me that such shenanigans were totally unacceptable. This was most definitely not how she wanted to be treated. Not in the least. No, Althegal wanted gentle cuddling and rocking. Oddly enough, she turned out to be the more active of the two, but that's enough recounting for the nonce.

And so, I eagerly wait to get to know Smudge and learn about her. Will she be quiet or boisterous, studious or rambunctious, musical or athletic? I look forward to getting to know her and appreciating whatever and whoever she is.

No March Marching

I do know that at the very least, I should walk for a half hour each day. And I totally agree with the principal. But I can't bring myself to it these days, for these are the days of March. You might think that someone wouldn't have trouble marching in March, but I can't conjure up a thimble full of enthusiasm for it this week.

You see, it's cold out there, and that turns me into a rather reluctant rambler. It shouldn't really, and it doesn't always have this effect in December or January or February. You see, my tiny, little mind equates those months with winter, and I embrace the season to a certain degree. I have walked on very cold days in those months and been quite warm. That's the thing with cold weather; you can pretty well always get warm. You can don layers of space age wonder material and be warm and toasty on the coldest days. I know it, and I've done it.

But it's March, and I no longer feel like girding my loins for wintry battle. If it's cold out, as it was today and many days recently, I find myself retreating into a fetal position and whimpering softly in the nearest corner. In point of fact, I can't remember when I last walked. I think it was this week, but it must have been early on — maybe Monday.

I haven't been totally bad. I have willed myself into the basement to work out at least twice (it's not as impressive as it sounds), and that's a good thing, and I have done my weekly linedancing tour of duty, and those things do count. Also, just last night, I copied and printed exercises from You: On a Diet. I haven't done them yet, but I have printed them. I have good intentions, you see.

Unfortunately, however, it's the season of winter blahs, and I find it hard to soldier on in the cold. That is compounded by the desire to eat more — more junk if possible. Potato chips lure me like the sirens of the deep lure sailors who haven't sighted a wom ... land for night onto six months. While I haven't totally descended into the dank depths of wanton gluttony, I have been making more than my share of bad choices. Strangely enough, however, I almost feel defiantly uncontrite (which spellchecker informs me is not a word) over my fall from grace.

But, it's supposed to warm up to above freezing on the weekend. It may even rain and wash away some of the snow and maybe some of my lethargy and cravings. It will happen relatively soon. Spring will come, and we'll be celebrating new beginnings. Before long I'll once again feel good about our four seasons — even the winter part. It just overstays its welcome. That's all.

Porcelainity

Just to keep in touch these days when I am feeling somewhat reticent, I'd like to share another picture with you. Last September, Cuppa's sister niece stopped on their way to and from a road trip to The Maritimes. They sort of had a Thelma and Louise thing going. Somehow, it's one movie that I've missed, and I don't know which is which, but they had a ball. Cuppa wrote about them and posted their Thelma and Louise photos here.

Today, I was given the task of creating a porcelain-effect on a photo. Following the instructions, this is what I came up with. While I'm not sure how porcelain it is, I like. You like?

Weekend Project

No artist I, but this week's Photoshop lesson was to produce a digital painting, so that's what I tried to do. So, it's not just a photo that has been filtered, but it's all done with choosing colours and making brush strokes. I don't know if I'll ever go to the bother of doing that again, but it was an challenging stretch for me, and I think I ended up enjoying the task. It was based on a photo that I took several years ago. Sigh ... having said that, I recalled probably blogging the photo, and, of course, that made me simply had to find it. Fortunately, Google has a fine search engine that found it for me in seconds.

When I say, "No artist I," I'm not kidding or being falsely modest. I was in grade four when I realized that I couldn't draw worth beans. So, I guess I surprise myself by doing as well as I did with this. When I say that I can't draw, I mean that I cannot mentally conjure any image at all when I'm trying. Although my mind certainly visualizes when my brain is on automatic pilot, I simply cannot bring any object to mind at will, and nobody ever told me that it was okay to actually draw something that you were actually looking at.

An ... er ... em ... Boy Toy

You may or may not recall my ... er ... em blog of several weeks past. Much of it had to do with driving out of town for medical exam of the ... er ... em area. That was just over two weeks ago, and today was the follow-up. You know what? Another storm — worse this time — bad enough to cancel the appointment. That's not all good either as I must still face it but have to wait on tenterhooks for more than a month from now this time. That's not exactly a quick fix doctor.

The good part was that I was able to not have to undergo a miserable exam on a miserable day. That's at least one too many miserables. Another good thing was that our neighbour let me use his little, electric snowblower. A boy toy! Yay!

Luckless in Lanark

It's an odd little life, isn't it? Just today, I was thinking about luck and how some people have it and some don't. I was thinking of it in terms of such things as games of chance, including lotteries and draws. I don't really consider myself lucky in these areas although but random flares (not lightning, surely) do light up my sky from time to time. In many ways, such as career, marriage, and children, I have lived what some might see as a charmed life, but I don't think most of that is really luck. I think it has more to do with being perceptive and using a modicum of wisdom in one's choices. Maybe not, but that's how I tend to think of it.

Linedancing here is free, but they have a little 50/50 draw every week. They sell one ticket for two bucks or three for five, and because both Cuppa and I are able to take advantage of the free night out, I feel duty-bound to buy three tickets every week — every week for well over a year now. They sell maybe 40 tickets give or take, so we purchase almost 10% of the total — or 7.5% if you insist on being a stickler for accuracy. So, you'd think we might win about once every three months or so. Nope! We have only one measly win in our sixteen months. Only one win when I think the odds-gods should have favoured us five times. There are people who buy one ticket per week and win somewhat regularly, but not old AC or his Cuppa. Nosiree. Heck, the prize was even on the low side on the week when we finally won about four months ago on about our first anniversary of attendance.

We also used to have a 50/50 draw at the school where I taught. They sold about a hundred tickets per week, but they had three prizes each week so the odds weren't that terrible. In addition to the regular weekly, they'd have a extravaganza at Christmas where they would draw for many, many prizes at Christmas. I'm not sure if I ever one more than once a year, and it was usually the third place, weekly consolation prize of ten dollars. Once again, there were some who won five or six times in the course of a year.

Then, there's the Tim's Roll up the Rim contest this time every year. Like most Canadians I find myself there on a semi-regular basis and had yet to win: no car, no plasma TV, no bicycle, no donut, not even a blinkin' cup of coffee. Cuppa has one the odd donut or coffee, but even her rate is probably less than one win per year.

This year's contest just began, and my first cup was the usual loser (see photo below). On the heels of another loss at linedancing the other night, I couldn't help but ponder all of the above ... and more ... such as our neighbour winning a trip to Ireland from a concert that she didn't attend but that I did attend. But, you see, I am even unlucky in blogdom because I picked up a coffee on the way home from my music lesson today. Wouldn't you know it? After all of these musings, I won a cup of coffee. Of all the rotten luck. Now I can't even blog about my lack of luck. So, I have no idea what to write about. Any suggestions?

PS: Lanark is the name of our county.