Who Do You Think You Are?

This week I revisited an area of Psychology that has always fascinated me – personality typing.

The idea that people, with all their complexities, quirks and differing behaviours, can be classed according to different personality types used to baffle me. I for one hate to be pigeon holed and like to think I’m unique (which, considering, it is probably a good thing if I am). Is it really possible that we’re all more similar than we think?

When I was at university, I didn’t have time for typing. That was until I stumbled across the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator. The psychometric assessment, which was based on theories made by the famous psychologist Carl Jung, measures how individuals perceive the world and make decisions.

Without getting too technical, the Myers-Briggs typology model regards personality type as similar to left or right handedness: individuals are either born with, or develop, certain preferred ways of thinking and acting. The MBTI sorts some of these psychological differences into four opposite pairs, or ‘dichotomies,’ with a resulting 16 possible psychological types.

The reason I’ve come to find this measurement the most reliable of personality tests is because I used to administer it on my family and friends, and see what they thought. Every single person who has been unlucky enough to fall prey to my assessment concedes that their result fits them perfectly.

I, for one, am an ENFP (the champion or inspirer). One website says: Like the other Idealists, Champions are rather rare, say two or three percent of the population, but even more than the others they consider intense emotional experiences as being vital to a full life. Champions have a wide range and variety of emotions, and a great passion for novelty. They see life as an exciting drama, pregnant with possibilities for both good and evil, and they want to experience all the meaningful events and fascinating people in the world. The most outgoing of the Idealists, Champions often can't wait to tell others of their extraordinary experiences. Champions can be tireless in talking with others, like fountains that bubble and splash, spilling over their own words to get it all out. And usually this is not simple storytelling; Champions often speak (or write) in the hope of revealing some truth about human experience, or of motivating others with their powerful convictions. Their strong drive to speak out on issues and events, along with their boundless enthusiasm and natural talent with language, makes them the most vivacious and inspiring of all the types.

I'll go into more depth another time. But now over to you.

What's your type? Take the test and let me know what you think!

http://www.humanmetrics.com/cgi-win/JTypes2.asp
or
http://www.personalitytest.net/cgi-bin/q.pl

Bounce Off

So, let me get this straight…

In Dubai nightclubs it’s ok for a grown man in his thirties to march up to a woman who is minding her own business and tell her to f*ck off, but it’s not ok to take your shoes off when dancing on a podium?

This was the case in Elegante on Friday night. There I was, doing my best Beyonce impression (don’t knock it, I’ve at least got the thighs down to tee), when this burly bouncer of 6 foot 4 completely ruined my style by pulling on my shorts. I looked down to see him pointing at my shoes. Or rather, the lack of.

“Do you want me to fall down,” I yelled.

It was a case of ‘tell it to the hand’ because girlfriend really wasn’t listening. Shoes had to come back on. I didn’t realise that in addition to alcohol and premarital sex, walking around bare foot had also become illegal in the UAE. I must have missed that memo from Sheikh Mo.

So I carried on with my best Beyonce impression, only this time I was trying to balance my body weight, plus alcohol consumed (hence, me, plus two), on four inch stilettos. You don’t need to be a mathematician to know that’s one dodgy formula.

Five minutes later, a random oaf decided to join my friend and I on the podium. He mouthed something along the lines of f*ck off to her (out of nowhere. This is how men like to court in Dubai), to which my natural bull to red rag reaction was to yell who the hell do you think you are (while trying to balance my body weight, plus alcohol consumed, on four inch stilettos).

We grabbed the same bouncer who had so heroically upheld the law on shoes and podiums five minutes earlier, to which we had no response. It seems that it’s perfectly acceptable to tell a girl you’ve never met before to f*ck off. Bare feet on a podium however, Christ, the scandal, call the popos before there’s an upheaval.

It seems that bouncers in Dubai have a problem with women. It’s not just Elegante. I’ve been spoken to like I’m a Russian whore a million and one times (I’m Western and I wear low cut tops. I clearly therefore must perform tricks to earn my dirhams), and when I’ve tried to get a bouncer to intervene, they look at me like I’m the one with the problem.

We eventually were told to get down off the podium, because we wouldn’t accept free drinks from some perverts that were sat on the table beneath us. I mean, who wouldn’t want to share vodka with aging, receding hair-lined, married Lebanese men. We clearly need our eyes testing.

The lesson learnt? Bouncers in Dubai are misogynist bare feet haters and most men in Dubai are (I will let you guess what word I was going to use here). I would say it was never to go to Elegante anymore, but I like the music too much.

Time - where does it go?

It's been a while. Almost a year to be precise. It occurred to me the other day that I hadn't written in my blog in ages - what I genuinely didn't realise was that it has actually been a whole year. I am very aware that what I'm about to ask is the most clichéd of questions, but, seriously, where on earth does time go?

When you're a child and your parents very annoyingly tell you to make the most of your school years because "before you know it you will be old like me and wishing you were young again," you brush it off with a "whatever" and get back to that very important game that you were playing on the Commodore 64 (now I'm really showing my age) without giving it much though. What do grown ups know anyway? They just like to ruin all your fun, embarrass you in front of David from year 10 who you've got a not-so-secret crush on and say things like 'time goes so fast Andrea. Don't wish away your childhood.' Cringe. Dude, cut it out.

Now if only there was a way of ensuring youngsters actually listened to their parents. I'm now 25 (dreaded 26 in May, but let's not get into that right now) and realising that I made a very big mistake in wishing my years away. OK, I'm by no means 'old' but I'm 'older' and realising that some of the best years are already over and done with. Along with those have also gone some of the best experiences.

Climbing a tree and building a house.
Discovering the thrill of winning your first race at school.
Getting drunk for the first time on cider and throwing up while trying to hide the evidence.
The excitement of seeing your first falling star (geeks like me lap stuff like that up. Others might replace this with their first experience with weed or something)
Having your first kiss. (admintingly, my first one was a disaster. This memory has been replaced with a very nicely made up version that involves a young Pacey from Dawson's Creek thank you very much).
Passing your GCSE's and A'Levels.
Getting into university.
Your 18th and 21st birthday (for those of us who actually remember them).
Graduation.
Getting your first job.

Hmmm. Tick, tick, tick. Done, done, done.

Onto my point. As we get older, we get so consumed with our day-to-day lives that time just passes us by without us realising. When you're young and not-so-jaded, every day lasts so long because every day is amazing in one way or another. The only problem is, you don't actually realise it's amazing until it's all over and done with.

Unfortunately, there is no way of making children listen to adults.The only child that will listen to you now is the child within. Life is tough, life is cruel and life is demanding. But don't let it pass you by. I'm guilty of it. I love nothing more than writing, but I let the fact that I write all day for a living stop me from expressing myself with words in the evening.

Embrace every experience and every minute as much as you can. Because that minute that just ticked by while you read this sentence? It just went, and it's never coming back.

As adults it's our responsibility to make sure not a moment passes us by. So, from now on I promise to write in my blog as often as possible, no matter how tired/angry/upset/jaded I am, and even if I have to resort to writing like a child.

Andrea A 4 George Clooney 4Eva.