Our old friend Mr. Webster defines a Type A personality as more competitive, highly organized, ambitious, impatient, highly aware of time management and/or aggressive.
My mother will tell you I was born this way, and I don’t doubt it one bit, but the first memory in which I can look back on and say “Aha!” comes at age 4. I was in preschool and was, very politely and in a perfectly orderly fashion, playing on the slide (think Fisher Price, not playground) when a fat little boy came up behind me and pushed me down to climb up the three whole stairs ahead of me. Never one to stay down long, I jumped up, not even bothering to dust myself off. I grabbed that little prick by the back of his t-shirt and pulled with all my might. Insert mental image of him falling great lengths to certain death. He sat back on his well cushioned ass and started screaming bloody murder. I mean, this is the stuff parent’s worst grocery shopping nightmares are made of. “She hit me! She pushed me!” I WHAT??? I plead my case with all my heart. “He pushed Me! It was my turn!” Knowing now what it’s like to try to focus in the presence of a screaming child, I imagine dear old Mrs. Huber couldn’t hear a thing I said. It probably wouldn’t have mattered if she did. The scene told her everything she’d needed to know. Guess who’s mom got a call?
I probably should have gotten the message loud and clear in that moment. The good guy doesn’t win. But to this day I continue to live right as rain, not because I’m convinced it pays but simply because the Type A in me makes it necessity.
… to be continued