New York is the psychotherapy capitol of the U.S.. Everyone has a psychiatrist, couselor, therapist, or “group.” The entire city seems to be trying to figure out who is normal and who is likely to start making strange fertilizer concoctions and renting moving vans.
Sure, everyone thinks they’re normal. But let’s be honest here–I’m from the South and therefore knew I was crazy from birth. But I’m not going to pay $350 an hour for someone to tell me that. I’ve got the sane-person routine down pretty good–I go to church, I go to work, and I don’t tell anyone about my imaginary friends (Flyod Fandango and Arthur Craptower).
But because it is part of the New York City culture, girlfriends are always asking me to take “mini-quizzes” to find out about my personality. These small tests, usually located in the back of some women’s magazine, ask questions like “Am I the jealous type? How sensitive are you? Is she the right woman for me? Can you handle stress?”
While taking these tests, I’m answer hoping to rack up the necessary points so that I’ll be in the “normal” category. I’m out to score, oops I mean, I’m out to win. What can I say? I’m a man. And this is why men’s magazines don’t have quizzes. A male-oriented quiz might go something like this (note the abscense of talk about how you feel):
Your car has a slip in the rear axle. It makes what noise?
a. Whumpity-whumpity-whump
b. Reee, reee, reee blat
c. Um dogga dogga um dogga dogga dogga
As a gentleman, when you and a woman approach a revolving door, you:
a. Go through the door first
b. Make an Ivanhoe gesture and let her go first
c. Enter her section of the revolving door and get “stuck”
d. Say, “Hey toots! Let me take you for a spin”
Even though the tests are becoming more subtle, I have steadfastly refused to take them in fear of blowing my cover (and that of Mr. Fandango and Mr. Craptower) . But this weekend, I was foiled. Herr Goebbels, uh, I mean a girlfriend of mine, administered a quiz to me under the charrade that it was a game. You can play along:
Imagine that you are walking through the forrest. The wind is blowing, the trees are green, and the flowers are in bloom. Suddenly you see a key on the path. What does it look like? What do you do with it?
I answered that it was an old brass key and that I picked it up , stuck it in my pocket, and forgot about it. Reasonable, right?
After awhile, you come to a vase. What does it look like? What do you do with it?
“Well, it looks like a vase in my mama’s house,” I answered and then went on to say that since it was so big and heavy, that I didn’t want to walk around the woods with it, so I threw it up against a tree and took along a few leftover fragments for momentos. Now granted, this answer was a little more elaborate, but I was trying to be “imaginative.” My girlfriend grimmaced.
Next, Morgan, you come to a lake. Describe it. What do you do?
“It’s wet. It’s blue,” I said and then added with much spontaneous conviction, “and I jump right in with all my clothes on–a big old cannonball. And then maybe a bellyflop!” “Okey-dokey,” my girlfriend said.
Finally, you come to a wall. What do you do?
“I suppose I’m pretty tired from all the swimming, so I think I probably just sit on the wall for a bit,” I said. “You just sit there?” my girlfriend asked. “Uh, yeah, it’s a big wall. I might even lie down.”
My “friend” Dr. Freud revealed that the key represented knowlege and what we do with it, the vase represented the opposite gender, the lake was our take on sexuality, and the wall was how we face problems. By the end of the quiz, despite the fact that there were “no right or wrong answers,” I was exposed as a woefully ignorant, women-smashing, oversexed dufus who when confronted with problems, takes a nap.
Clearly, my reputation is ruined in New York City. Perhaps I should look into a vacation at Brice, Thomasville.
—Morgan Murphy