It took me a long time to realize that, contrary to popular belief, I am not a spontaneous person.
It seems like impulsivity should be my thing. Spontaneity is fun! It adds sparkle! It's unexpected! What's not to love? My primary temperament (sanguine) is associated with spontaneity and my Myers-Briggs type (ENFP) is sometimes labeled the Spontaneous Idealist.
But behold: my 16th birthday. I woke up to the sound of a muffled door handle at 5:30 in the morning. It was pitch black - my birthday is in the middle of January, the dark heart of winter in Minnesota. I jumped straight from my warm bed to my window and saw a group of my closest friends making their way through a fresh blanket of snow toward my front door.
I knew where this was going: They were going to kidnap me, in my pajamas, before I had a chance to shower or curl my hair to put on even a stitch of make-up, and squirrel me away to a birthday breakfast at Perkins, where they would hoot and holler and make fun of me and love on me and generally embarrass me as only a 16-year-old girl can be embarrassed.
Was I charmed by this? Not on your life. I was livid. I ran into my bathroom and locked the door and refused to come out, even when my mom gently pleaded with me through the keyhole that my friends had parental permission to do this, that they meant no harm, that they had gone through a lot of trouble to come surprise me.
I was having none of it! None!
Eventually, my tantrum subsided and I grudgingly agreed to be made much of in my pajamas. I went to Perkins and dutifully ate my pancakes and I may have even relaxed and laughed a time or two by the time the sun was rising.
But that was my first clue. I like spontaneity - if I can control it. Enter the oxymoron: planned spontaneity.
Fast-forward to today. (You just time warped through approximately 25 years. You're welcome.) Both my husband and I have made peace with my bizarre dichotomy. He knows I'm going to appreciate that surprise weekend Up North if I have at least a few days notice. I'm not going to enjoy an impulsive movie night unless the toys are picked up first. I can't relax at the lake knowing I have a towering pile of laundry at home. I need a framework of order to fully embrace the impromptu.
This is why I clean my house every Monday, why I meal plan religiously, why I keep a running To Do list and why I start to freak out if the toys cover more than 45% of the floor's surface. Because the chaos must be contained in order for me to say: Yes, honey, I would love to run and get ice cream with the kids in their pajamas at 9:00 PM.
And if you want to take me to breakfast in my pajamas at 6:00 AM? I'm up for that.
Just call first, so I can put it on my schedule.
It seems like impulsivity should be my thing. Spontaneity is fun! It adds sparkle! It's unexpected! What's not to love? My primary temperament (sanguine) is associated with spontaneity and my Myers-Briggs type (ENFP) is sometimes labeled the Spontaneous Idealist.
But behold: my 16th birthday. I woke up to the sound of a muffled door handle at 5:30 in the morning. It was pitch black - my birthday is in the middle of January, the dark heart of winter in Minnesota. I jumped straight from my warm bed to my window and saw a group of my closest friends making their way through a fresh blanket of snow toward my front door.
I knew where this was going: They were going to kidnap me, in my pajamas, before I had a chance to shower or curl my hair to put on even a stitch of make-up, and squirrel me away to a birthday breakfast at Perkins, where they would hoot and holler and make fun of me and love on me and generally embarrass me as only a 16-year-old girl can be embarrassed.
Was I charmed by this? Not on your life. I was livid. I ran into my bathroom and locked the door and refused to come out, even when my mom gently pleaded with me through the keyhole that my friends had parental permission to do this, that they meant no harm, that they had gone through a lot of trouble to come surprise me.
I was having none of it! None!
Eventually, my tantrum subsided and I grudgingly agreed to be made much of in my pajamas. I went to Perkins and dutifully ate my pancakes and I may have even relaxed and laughed a time or two by the time the sun was rising.
But that was my first clue. I like spontaneity - if I can control it. Enter the oxymoron: planned spontaneity.
Fast-forward to today. (You just time warped through approximately 25 years. You're welcome.) Both my husband and I have made peace with my bizarre dichotomy. He knows I'm going to appreciate that surprise weekend Up North if I have at least a few days notice. I'm not going to enjoy an impulsive movie night unless the toys are picked up first. I can't relax at the lake knowing I have a towering pile of laundry at home. I need a framework of order to fully embrace the impromptu.
This is why I clean my house every Monday, why I meal plan religiously, why I keep a running To Do list and why I start to freak out if the toys cover more than 45% of the floor's surface. Because the chaos must be contained in order for me to say: Yes, honey, I would love to run and get ice cream with the kids in their pajamas at 9:00 PM.
And if you want to take me to breakfast in my pajamas at 6:00 AM? I'm up for that.
Just call first, so I can put it on my schedule.
