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I really, really want to post a gripe about griping but that would be griping, so I won’t. I’ll just say this: if I’m not causing the problem and if there’s not a damn thing I can do about it, quit your griping to me about it. I don’t want to hear it over and over and over again.

Funny how we so need others in our lives yet they can set us off on a rant in no time flat. Certain people seem to have that knack of pushing all the wrong buttons and making you feel like you’re five again and you just got caught boosting some Sugar Duds from the dime store.  This happens regardless of how mature as you’d like to think you are–and please note, I am talking about you and not about me, because mature is not really a word I’d associate with me, despite that creepy old lady neck thing I’ve got going now and the horrifying old lady lip lines that have been etching themselves into my otherwise youthful face lately. Those are a function of age, menopause, and heartbreak in about equal measure and have nothing whatsoever to do with maturity. I am not, nor will I ever be, a grown-up. I have seen your world and it frightens me.

So, personalities. It’s amazing that my brothers and I are so close in age–they are just one and two years older than I–yet we are so very different. Equally amazing is that I sprang from my mother’s womb yet you would be hard pressed to find two such different people. She’s a fusser and worrier and she actually cares what the neighbors think. She’s almost antiseptically tidy, aside from the kitchen counters and the crumbs on the butter and let’s not even start on what she perpetrates in the jar of peanut butter, while I’m kind of loose when it comes to housekeeping. I like a certain amount of order and hygiene, but you wouldn’t exactly call me a neat freak. Mom dresses it up; I sure don’t. She likes pink and lacey; give me blues and greens and no fuss and furbelows and I’ll be happy. She vacuums every week; I do at least every year. Or so. Different? You bet.  Like night and day. Sugar and salt. Up and down. Felix and Oscar.

I’ve known this woman all of my life, yet she’s a mystery to me. I will never know what makes her tick and fuss and worry so. If you caught her in an unguarded moment, she’d likely say the same thing about me. She’ll never get me. We’re two very different people tangled up in shared DNA.

I suppose when it comes down to it, each of us is a mystery to someone. Our personalities simply don’t mesh, there’s a disconnect of one kind or another, or there’s some kind of negative labeling. Mostly, though, I suspect it’s just a matter of being different, and let’s face it, all of us are. Isn’t that supposed to be a good thing? I’ll try to remember that next time my mom is driving me up the wall, but no promises.

A few weeks ago, I came across a personality test online, and it’s a little different, too. In place of the usual questions and answers you may be used to, this uses images to create an assessment. I found it to be surprisingly accurate in many ways. Give it a shot if you have a few minutes and see what you think. You can find it Visual DNA Personality Test.



About Kymm

I'm a reader and writer and knitter, a sister, daughter, and friend. This blog is my letter, of love and hate, frustration and joy, rants and praises, to a great big world. You can read it if you want to.

2 responses »

  1. Do you need some alligators? I think I have extras.


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