Spicy or Intrigue?
There's a fine line between defining ourselves for the sake of introspection or perception
A few weeks ago, this was a question that was posed at the dinner table with friends. It’s not an official personality type; simply one that our friend came up with that happens to have lit a spark in my brain. It’s a binary (or is it?) that can be as meaningless or as poignant as you’d like to make it. Something to laugh about and throw away at the end of the night, or something to chew on incessantly for the next few weeks. I’ll give you one guess which camp I landed in.
The answers were decided almost instinctively as we whizzed around the table; and once we were done evaluating ourselves and each other, we went onto consider both the spiciness and intrigue levels of our other friends. Without hesitation, it was agreed that I was definitely, absolutely, undeniably not spicy. It’s not lost on me that I’m framing this in the negative. It was the first thing I thought of when the decision was made. Am I boring? What makes me not spicy? What does that word even mean to me? I looked at the spicier characters flanking me on either side: brilliant, funny, warm people with spark, moxie and confidence. And despite all of the positive connotations with intrigue (observant, mysterious, fascinating), I felt the absence of spiciness more viscerally than the presence of my own intrigue.
The problem with binaries like these is that we often interpret them as opposites, assuming that the presence of one means the absence of another; without taking into account that, as Whitman said, we all contain multitudes. It’s become an interesting social experiment I’ve been conducting amongst various friendship groups. Is it telling that most people who were categorised (or categorised themselves) as ‘intrigue’, asked whether this was the less ‘good’ definition? Much like labelling yourself as either an introvert or an extrovert, there’s a societal assumption that one is better than the other. I’ve been referred to as Type A on more than one occasion, and each time it stings just as potently as the last.
Earlier on in the dinner, we had gone around the table and decided whether we were more frog or rat. At least with these two, neither sound particularly appealing. There’s not one that feels inherently better or more attractive; I’d be equally offended and happy to be either one. In case you were wondering, I’m a frog; to give context, Timothée Chalamet is a rat. I can’t quite work out the logic, but it simply makes sense.
Definition
The appeal of defining ourselves is hardly novel. The proliferation of personality tests – are you an ENFP (Myers Briggs) or a Type Four (Enneagram)? – and a newfound curiosity in astrological tech (the regular sending of Co-Star, Sanctuary and The Pattern updates to friends) has defined how we perceive ourselves and others. What might have started as a casual way of understanding ourselves and our habits better, has become a way of judging and deciding what parts of society we fit into, and in turn, the types of people we choose to spend our time with.
Hayley Nahman made this interesting point in her essay about astrology last year: “as astrology further proliferated across apps and platforms, worming its way increasingly into mainstream discourse, it started to feel less like a tool for introspection than a tool for stereotyping.” In her words, the increasing appeal and interest in astrology and finding meaning in it has created an intellectual apathy; a loss or death of personality of sorts, as we all search for the same meaning and the same descriptions in the same place.
On a social level some of these questions can be useful in certain situations. For example: it’s not an exact science, but considering a partner’s love language and whether it is similar or different to your own can help avoid unnecessary conflict. It’s easy to assume that the way you like to receive or give love will be reciprocated by your partner; but without communicating that need, you’re asking them to read your mind. The way you might show love might be different to how you like to receive it. Some prefer to shower their partners with compliments, others prefer to do things for them. Some prefer gifts, others prefer to have their head stroked. (I’m the latter for any prospective partners reading).
Introspection
It was just after a prolonged bout of debilitating anxiety that I started becoming more interested in defining myself through these personality types. I was doing a lot of self-reflection by constantly journaling, noting down thoughts, feelings, habits and patterns I would notice about myself. Whilst living in Northern California I was introduced to the Enneagram test by Anna, whose winery I was working and living on. As a leadership coach for executives in big brands like Nike and Gap, Anna used Enneagram to help them better understand their leadership styles and how they interact with people they worked with. After a week or so of spending time together, she had me figured out. She knew I was a Type Four, so after I discovered that she was spot on when I took the quiz, I decided to read up about ‘The Individualist’. It was as if someone had reached into the innermost corners of brains and noticed all of my idiosyncrasies, patterns of behaviours and quirks.
I found it impossible not to feel incredibly drawn in by this analysis. It was illuminating for me at a time when I felt very much shrouded in darkness. It confirmed things I had already thought about myself before, but more than that it highlighted ways that I had behaved and interacted with others (namely romantic partners) that were ultimately toxic and harmful for everyone involved. It delivered me some difficult home truths (like this one: “As long as they believe that there is something fundamentally wrong with them, they cannot allow themselves to experience or enjoy their many good qualities) and in a way, paved a path to escape the negative aspects and feel more at peace with myself (a forever process, it seems). This, to me, has been the purest tool of introspection. I prefer to keep these learnings to myself; and I’ve never once considered whether someone else sees me in this way. It feels almost too detailed, too personal and deeply embedded for another person to notice or comment on.
It’s hardly a surprise that I buy into these quizzes and questions. As a strategist, it is quite literally my job to categorise, define and communicate personalities, albeit ones for brands as opposed to individuals. This habitual level of assessment has seeped into my own self-reflection; or perhaps it was the other way round. I’ve always been a self-analytical person, intent on reflecting and recalling how I act and how I am perceived. When I took the Myers Briggs test for the fifteenth time this week, I felt so provoked by some of the questions, as if someone inside my computer screen was accusing me of something: When someone thinks highly of you, you wonder how long it will take them to feel disappointed in you. Reluctantly, looking around to make sure no one is looking, I click agree.
Perception
So why did the question of spiciness or intrigue feel so threatening to me? I suppose because it’s less about learning about ourselves and more about learning about how others perceive us. In my own little vacuum, I am completely happy to describe myself as intriguing. It honestly makes sense to me. But open up my sealed world to the watchful eyes of other people, and I’m suddenly so self conscious of all my flaws.
This acute awareness of being observed has only been heightened by the constant developments in social media. I can’t be the only person who has looked at my own Instagram stories at different moments, wondering what people would think about me as they watched parts of my life unravelling before them. It’s in these performative actions – posting, storytelling, revealing, recounting – that I judge myself from a distance as if I am disconnected from my body looking down from above, yelling at myself: Act more confident! Don’t send that neurotic message! Say what you think, not what you think other people want to hear!
Of course we cannot control how others perceive us. In my younger years I might have countered this argument by changing myself, folding to fit in, and pretending to be something I’m not. In response to me worrying that people will find out how unhinged, emotional and messy I am, my spicier childhood friend said: but they’re going to find out eventually. Because I am (it’s true: tears are my love language). But I am also many other things as well. So while I will take my intrigue with a pinch of salt, I’ll still embrace the mystery, the listening, the quiet, and also recognise that I can set conversations alight along with the spiciest of them, too.