These past few weeks, I’ve had fun learning about the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator (MBTI), which identifies people as one of 16 personality types based on their natural preferences. For example, I am an ENFJ – Extraversion, Intuition, Feeling, Judging (really, they spell it ‘extravert’, not ‘extrovert’). Translated:

• Extraversion – I am energised by being around people
• Intuition – I get information about the world by seeing big picture patterns and meanings
• Feeling – I make decisions based on what other people care about and maintaining harmony between people
• Judging – I prefer arranging my life in a structured and organised way.

The opposing preferences are Intraversion, Sensing, Thinking, Perceiving. All the types are described here.

It’s not the individual type elements that are interesting — it’s the way the four preferences interact. You end up with a big report about how you prefer to behave and how people perceive you. My report pegged me almost exactly.

“ENFJs are energetic, enthusiastic and very aware of others. Their genuine interest can usually draw out and involve even the most reserved person.” They may “worry, feel guilty and doubt themselves… Be overly sensitive to criticism, real or imagined… Find it difficult to admit to problems or disagreements with people they care about.”

And the revelations continue for 10 pages.

Ever since finding out my type, I’ve been observing its accuracy. It’s interesting and disturbing at the same time. This weekend, I feel like the people around me have suffered my over-friendliness, stubborn refusal to discuss issues that I take personally and preoccupation with schedules and punctuality.

I’ve been wondering if the MBTI results have allowed me to “know thyself” or if it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy. “Gee, I’m an extravert, I’ll be super-not-shy and ask that random stranger to dance because he looks lonely and it hurts me when people are lonely but I’d better to check the timetable to see if I have a few minutes before I have to go help set up dinner.”

For someone with a love-hate relationship with labels, the MBTI is a scary thing.

“Jason! Check out the Collectable Wind Up Music Box Damjan gave me.”

I waited as Jason finished typing an MSN message. He turned to look at my toy. “Hey, that’s cool!” he exclaimed. I handed it over.

He wound it slowly and Love Story began tinkling out. He leaned in closer, fascinated by the way the tiny protrusions on the barrel flicked up metal strips of varying length to make sound. He slowed his winding down then sped it up, faster and faster.

“I reckon it’s skipping a note,” he observed. We both know Love Story backwards and forwards, it being one of the first pieces we ever learned on the piano.

He placed it on the wooden table and suddenly, the tinkles were amplified. “Wow! That’s loud.” He put it on a chair and the music was softer. He put it on a folder. Softer yet again.

“I think that it’s amplified on hollow surfaces, like guitar strings are,” I suggested.

“Yeah…” He wound it on a tissue box to produce an unexpectedly loud sound. He got up and started playing it on the door of his wardrobe.

“I wonder what’d happen if…” he murmured. He placed a finger at the base of the metal strips.

“Do you think if we shorten the strips, it’ll go up a tone?” I asked.

He began turning the handle and the notes came out short — Love Story in staccato. Tock! Tock! Tock! Tock!

“Tee hee,” he giggled and began winding faster.

“Erm, Jason… I need to go to sleep now.”

He didn’t respond.

“Look, you can keep the music box for tonight. I’ll get it later.”

“Uh huh.” He was still turning the handle.

I went back to my bedroom and got into bed. I could hear the strains of Love Story rushing then slowing, legato then staccato, loud then soft, and all combinations of those. Half an hour later, he was still going.

Jason is not a monkey.

I enjoyed my walk home from the station today. I enjoyed it with all five of my senses.

I felt the comfortable coolness glide over my skin as I sliced through the air.

I walked with my head up to look at the magenta skyline suffusing into the light blue world roof.

I heard the *thock* of a tennis ball striking wood and crickets chirping to a soundtrack of Grade 5 piano piece.

As I stepped pass each fenceline, I breathed in wafts of barbecue, curry, roast, and other unnamed savouries.

I ran my tongue over my lips in anticipation of dinner and tasted the dusting of chocolate from my 4 o’clock cappuccino.

I’m in raptures over today’s Jazztrack program on ABC Classic. I have no idea what time it was actually on — I’m listening to it over my broadband connection. What a wonderful thing, this audio stream.

I bought my mum a Cabbage Patch Kid. For those of you who know my mum, she really is a big kid. I knew she would like the doll. I was right.

“Joan,” she looked at me mournfully. “It’s really cute but we have to return it. What am I going to do with a big doll? I can’t carry it around, people will think I’m crazy. And we can’t just leave it in a box and display it somewhere.”

“Oh,” I said.

“We’ll return it and use the money to buy a mobile phone, okay? My phone’s too heavy to carry on my walks. We’ll get something practical like a new phone.”

Damn you, adult practicality!

On Thursday, I arrived home from work.

“Joan! We bought a new phone but it’s too complicated for me,” Mum was exasperated. She thrust into my hand a Nokia 3200. It has all the latest, coolest features: camera (of course), colour screen, MMS, radio, GPRS… and a flashlight. Ooh, funky!

“I don’t want it. Give me your phone, Joan, and you can have this one.”

Oh no! I’ve always prided myself in having a minimalist phone. My Siemens A55 does phone calls, SMS and polyphonic ringtones. It does the job. I’m no yuppie. (Yeah right, Joan. What about your Palm, hey?? Shuddup, shaddup!)

“Okay mum,” I said resignedly. “Just for you.”

The things I do!