My Type-Q Personality
At first, I thought it was maybe a typo of the worst kind. I wondered if the young girl in the white smock outside my doctor's office had let her little finger drift upwards on the keyboard, wondered if she had mistakenly slapped a Q when she meant to hit an A. But, there it was, glaring at me from the form in my medical file. In the little box next to Personality Type, a capital Q.
What, in all of God's creation, is a Type-Q personality?
All my life, it's been hurry-worry-worry-hurry. On my own at the age of 17, I hustled through university, married at the young age of 24, had kids by the time I was 30, bought a house, had a successful career, survived a divorce, lost a house, rebuilt my life ... well, you get the idea. I can't remember being anything but a grasping, gasping Type-A, bound-for-an early-heart-attack kind of guy.
When did I slip into being a Type-Q?
And what does that Q stand for? Quitter? Questionable? Quarrelsome? Queer?
So I Q-for-queried my doctor the moment he appeared in the freezing cold examining room.
"Why Q?" I asked. "I've never heard of a Type-Q personality. What does it mean?"
"Quiet," he replied with one of those deadpan doctor looks.
"No," I retorted with some Type-A spittle flying from my lips, "don't just try to shut me up. Tell me what a Type-Q personality is."
He smirked and turned away from me.
"It's funny?" I continued as I reeled through my Q-for-quandary. "Why is it funny?"
He turned to face me with something of a broad bill of a smile on his face, but said nothing.
I Q-for-quivered with a sense of outrage, while frankly becoming more and more Q-for-queasy as the moments passed.
"You need to explain," I Q-for-quickly insisted. "Chalk it up to my Q-riousity."
"You're overreacting," he Q-for-quipped with a snicker, before adding, "the Q simply stands for quiet."
"Type-Q-for-quiet?" I guffawed. Then, in something of a softer voice, I wondered, "Type-Q-for-quiet, what does that mean?"
"Simply that you're a very quiet man," this obviously wise and learned doctor explained. "Most days, you're the picture of serenity."
"Oh," I mumbled, seriously humbled. "Well, thank-you, I take that as a huge compliment. I thought, for a moment, that you were something of a Q-for-quack."
He smiled again, ruffled his tail feathers, and shimmied his rear end. "I trust," he began with something of a bleat, before hesitating a moment while clearing his throat. "I trust," he continued, "that I have Q-for-quashed some of your Q-for-qualms."
To which, I could only reply, "Yes, Q-for-quite."
At first, I thought it was maybe a typo of the worst kind. I wondered if the young girl in the white smock outside my doctor's office had let her little finger drift upwards on the keyboard, wondered if she had mistakenly slapped a Q when she meant to hit an A. But, there it was, glaring at me from the form in my medical file. In the little box next to Personality Type, a capital Q.
What, in all of God's creation, is a Type-Q personality?
All my life, it's been hurry-worry-worry-hurry. On my own at the age of 17, I hustled through university, married at the young age of 24, had kids by the time I was 30, bought a house, had a successful career, survived a divorce, lost a house, rebuilt my life ... well, you get the idea. I can't remember being anything but a grasping, gasping Type-A, bound-for-an early-heart-attack kind of guy.
When did I slip into being a Type-Q?
And what does that Q stand for? Quitter? Questionable? Quarrelsome? Queer?
So I Q-for-queried my doctor the moment he appeared in the freezing cold examining room.
"Why Q?" I asked. "I've never heard of a Type-Q personality. What does it mean?"
"Quiet," he replied with one of those deadpan doctor looks.
"No," I retorted with some Type-A spittle flying from my lips, "don't just try to shut me up. Tell me what a Type-Q personality is."
He smirked and turned away from me.
"It's funny?" I continued as I reeled through my Q-for-quandary. "Why is it funny?"
He turned to face me with something of a broad bill of a smile on his face, but said nothing.
I Q-for-quivered with a sense of outrage, while frankly becoming more and more Q-for-queasy as the moments passed.
"You need to explain," I Q-for-quickly insisted. "Chalk it up to my Q-riousity."
"You're overreacting," he Q-for-quipped with a snicker, before adding, "the Q simply stands for quiet."
"Type-Q-for-quiet?" I guffawed. Then, in something of a softer voice, I wondered, "Type-Q-for-quiet, what does that mean?"
"Simply that you're a very quiet man," this obviously wise and learned doctor explained. "Most days, you're the picture of serenity."
"Oh," I mumbled, seriously humbled. "Well, thank-you, I take that as a huge compliment. I thought, for a moment, that you were something of a Q-for-quack."
He smiled again, ruffled his tail feathers, and shimmied his rear end. "I trust," he began with something of a bleat, before hesitating a moment while clearing his throat. "I trust," he continued, "that I have Q-for-quashed some of your Q-for-qualms."
To which, I could only reply, "Yes, Q-for-quite."
