In my older age, after a stint as an E on the Myers-Briggs continuum for a few years, I’ve found my way right back to my erstwhile tendencies, this time as an INFJ.
As is the case with most I’s, prolonged exposure to social interaction feels draining. But unlike most I’s, I derive a twisted enjoyment from awkward social situations because they demand to be savored. Indeed, their very existence hinges on chance factors colliding perfectly into each other: the right people, the right mix of conflicting motivations, the right blend of unmet expectations.
A few weeks ago, I found myself in the middle seat on a flight to New York, sandwiched between a morbidly obese fellow to my right and a tiny Asian woman to my left. There were also two flatulent passengers–or one really talented gasmaster–who smelled alternately of rancid potato chips and, frankly, shit. To the best of what I could tell, my immediate neighbors weren’t the perpetrators, but then again, such Venn diagrams are unknowable.