What is an Introvert you might ask?
Well I am sure there are a number of good sites you can find on the Internetz to tell you.
This however is my answer:
Between the time you are first wheeled out in your stroller, and the time you are last wheeled out on a stretcher, you are bound to roll over a large, dull object known as an Introvert. Such near collisions are unavoidable because Introverts always travel down the road of life headed in the wrong direction . . . with their lights turned off. And they never, ever warn you of their approach by blowing their horns.
Introverts are individuals who spend a lot of time alone, thinking about themselves. Unfortunately, the subject is so limited that they have plenty of idle time left over to come out and get in other peoples way. This most often happens in libraries, where they occupy your favorite seat memorizing chess books in case they should ever be asked to play.
Not that an Introvert would ever get in your way on purpose. It's just that he seldom notices what's happening around him because he's concentrating so hard on how it makes him feel. He only remembers being at the Super Bowl because that's were the beer vendor made fun of him for not having exact change. He only remembers the 2000 election because that's when he didn't vote for fear of doing something stupid at the polling place. And he only remembers Spring Break in Florida because that's where he heard somebody laugh at the way he looked in swim trunks.
It's strange how Introverts always think other people are noticing them. In actuality, they come across with the same kind of impact that makes Franklin Pierce the one president you always forget about, and the Buffalo Bills the one NFL team you always leave off the list, and Ted Kennedy's fellow Senator from Massachusetts, the one whose name you can never remember, even if your from Massachusetts. Truth be told, if Introverts didn't think about themselves so much, they'd never be thought of at all.
Still, it's easy to spot an Introvert in a crowd. . . if you can imagine any conceivable reason for wanting to. He's the one working the cross word puzzle, in the corner of a crowded bar. He's the one hesitating to turn in a perfect exam paper because he's ashamed of his penmanship. He's the one ordering "super size" at the golden arches to celebrate his birthday. And he's the one in group therapy whose main problem is a fear of speaking up in group therapy.
But deep down inside, Introverts are much the same as everybody else. They have their driving ambitions. . . to read all of Shakespeare's plays and all the Harvard Classics before they die. They have their smoldering desires. . . to own the biggest collection of Vatican Air Mail Stamps. They have their dreams of glory. . . to win national acclaim for being able to recite all the state capitals in four minutes flat. They even have their fantasies of sin . . . to flog Fran Drescher until she tearfully agrees to shut up and become an Introvert.
No doubt about it. An Introvert is more than just another highly forgettable face masking emotions that run the gamut from hardly any to none at all. An Introvert is also Sincerity drowning in a moist handshake, Flaming Passion swathed in a grey wool muffler, Steel Nerves risking all at solitaire, Daredevil Courage revving up a '79 gremlin, Firm Resolve proclaimed in an apologetic mumble, Attentiveness floating on a cloud of preoccupation, and Thoughtful Silence. . . lots and lots of Thoughtful Silence.
Above all, the Introvert possesses the gift of Dedicated Perseverance. Who else assembles a ten-thousand piece jigsaw puzzle of a Star Destroyer suitable for the mantle? Who else spends every Christmas exposing himself to the flu so he'll have an honest excuse for staying home on New Year's Eve? Who else drives from Toledo to Cleveland by way of Omaha rather than beg for a road map at a gas station? And who else wastes his whole lunch hour riding home on the bus just so he can use his own bathroom?
Quite obviously, the world needs Introverts. Somebody has to write those 600 page biographies of medieval French kings. Somebody has to be the night watchman for the Navy's mothball fleet. Somebody has to write the jokes that President's say to show their sense of humor. Somebody has to perpetuate the art of engraving the Lord's prayer on the head of a pin. And, most importantly, somebody has to be there pretending to listen while all the Extroverts on earth shoot off their big mouths.
Some people tend to feel sorry for Introverts. This is a total waste of sympathy, when you stop to think about it. After all, nobody ever calls upon the Introvert to coach the neighborhood soccer team, or head up a charity event, or ruin his Sunday filling out a golf foursome. He is permitted to go his own way, doing what he pleases. And the only thing society ever asks of the Introvert is that he keep uttering his familiar cry that brings joy to all:
I was just leaving.
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