I don’t need a personality test to tell me I’m a classic introvert. Reserved, reflective, check. Prefer observation to participation, check. Exhausted by too much social stimulation, check.
However, for a brief spell in my thirties, I passed as an extrovert. John and I threw outrageous parties and paid heavenly bills. Instead of waiting for invitations, I had to send them. I had to place calls (and risk having them not returned!) instead of waiting for people to call me. Hardest of all, I had to feign interest in other people’s lives instead of thinking about me, me, me all the time. It didn’t come naturally, that’s for sure.
Amazingly, 27 years ago, we made it to a birthday party in South Pasadena and a dinner party in Beverly Hills and had a fine time at both! Today, either one of those events would exhaust my reservoir of sociability for a week. I need my time alone to wonder what you think about me.
I suspect even extroverts socialize less as they age, despite theoretically having more time. A couple of F. Scott Fitzgerald quotes suggest depressing reasons why.
Beneath his party-boy facade, he must’ve been an introvert.
