“Who am I, at this stage in my life?” I wondered.
I was feeling that middle-aged malaise…dissatisfied, reaching for something but I didn’t quite know what. So I did what any rational, college-educated woman of my stature would do. I took quizzes on Facebook to figure it out. Scary Mommy quizzes, Buzzfeed quizzes, Zimbio quizzes – you name it. Here are the conclusive, if surprising results.
According to the Scary Mommy quiz, I should have only two children. This is problematic, not only because I have three kids, but because the quiz doesn’t tell me which of them I’m supposed to NOT have.
Speaking of children, the folks at Zimbio deduced that I am The Count from Sesame Street. This is clearly because when the quiz asked what my favorite dinosaur was, I chose Brontosaurus. The end-of-quiz analysis pegged me as a little OCD, and someone to whom people run when they have to split the check. This makes perfect sense, as anytime I’ve dined out with a Brontosaurus, I was the one who had to do the math when the waitress brought the bill.
I moved on, with interest, to the “Which Simpsons Character Are You?” quiz. When asked which, of nine celebrities presented, I’d most want to have lunch with, I chose Albert Brooks. From this, the quiz gods triangulated that I was Marge Simpson – moral center of the family.
Emboldened, I eagerly took the “Which Punk Icon Are You” quiz. Henry Rollins (from Black Flag, of course!) He’s described as “smart, clever, aiming for mental and physical perfection, incredibly charismatic, and chatty.” I’m sure I got this result because I did NOT pick “I pooped on the floor” as the reason I got kicked out of parties.
Answer: Times New Roman. Question: What Font am I? This came from my choosing Reykjavic as a place I’d like to visit, “Grinding” as my signature dance move, and “surprise zits” as what make me angriest (over other such choices as “social injustice.”) Yes, like Times New Roman, I am reliable and “secretly sexy.” I felt lighter already.
In the last quiz, I admitted American Literature was my favorite subject. Digging deeper, emotionally, I disclosed that the recipe I’m most likely to look up on Pintrest (of the nine choices given) was for “Crispy Brussels Sprouts.” From these revelations came the conclusion that I should get a “teeny tiny” tattoo someplace “cute, like behind the ear or inside the wrist.”
This is a huge relief to my husband, since I’d already made my appointment to get a life-size tattoo of Henry Rollins’ face on my chest. Instead, I’ll simply get his initials behind my ear. In Times New Roman, of course.