Some people, like me, are high-strung. Only I didn’t know that that was the term for it. I just thought I had a great memory for details, like the exact way the teacher told us to format our essay, while also showing humility in a way the Greek gods would have admired, since I didn’t trust my superior memory but instead double checked the notes I’d taken while the teacher spoke so that later I could double check them again.
But when I was in college I found out that, there was a word for creatures like me, one that, by my friend’s tone, was not a good thing. Not high-functioning or high-performing, but high-strung.
We were sitting somewhere. I won’t make up a place and pretend I remember this moment like it crystallized itself in my memory and soul. It didn’t, because it wasn’t an earth-shattering one. Somehow the conversation led to my friend, who’s normally very confident, to say “Well, you’re very…,” only to stumble over himself as he tried to find a way to stop his momentum. I had no idea where he was headed, so the tripping intrigued me. And when he let out a defeated sigh, as if he’d just given up some internal battle to find a better word, he said, “High-strung.”
If that store is out of laundry soap, you can go another block down and also pick up the cheddar only that bodega has.
And then he looked at me, waiting for things to take a bad turn. But I just said, “Yeah. I am.” I’ll be honest, I felt a little pinch somewhere soft inside me, not because I don’t like the way I am, but because I know others see being that word as a burden I’m tasked with when really, I don’t mind it all that much. They do.
See, being intense means that when I travel, I am on a higher plane where I can remember reservation codes and seat assignments and passport numbers and gate changes. And when I get thrown a lot of information, I can parse through it and digest it and arrive at some conclusion — for instance, that if we need to be at the party by eight but the traffic is heavier than usual and parking is bad because it’s a Friday and I need to get gas because I won’t have time tomorrow and I’m a slower walker in heels and I don’t want to be sweaty by the time I arrive, we should leave at 7:15. Well, 7:13 really, but I round up — I’m intense, not a psychopath.
Being this way has its drawbacks, too, like not being able to shut off my brain as problems and solutions auto-populate at every moment of my day. That train is down, so we need to take this one. This restaurant has few vegan options, so if that’s an issue I have a backup. If that store is out of laundry soap, you can go another block down and also pick up the cheddar only that bodega has. These are the handy things about being type-A.
I mean, I’ve never messed up a bibliography, so that’s something. But when I do make a ditzy mistake (which does happen, believe me), I get a bit of a kick out of it. Like the Little Mermaid when she finally finds out what it’s like to walk.
But the bad drawbacks are the ones that make me like myself less. That make others like you less. The reason friend had a nervous look on his face. Being high-strung means sometimes, and in certain contexts, you have a hard time relaxing, being fun, going with the flow. Someone people don’t like having around all the time. The person they’re worried will be a nay-sayer to wild ideas or point out why that’s illegal and dumb. I wish I could ignore my tightly wound inner core, but I can’t. I’ve seen the shared glances between friends when I let that part of me speak. The “ugh” they thought but didn’t express. Or the annoyance covered with a teasing “C’mon, lighten up.”
I can’t always lighten up and I hate that it creates friction with others. That’s when I wish I weren’t like this. But otherwise, I want non-high-strung people to know that of all the burdens you can carry in life, this is a pretty good one. I mean, I’ve never messed up a bibliography, so that’s something. And, when I do make a ditzy mistake (which does happen, believe me), I get a bit of a kick out of it. Like the Little Mermaid when she finally finds out what it’s like to walk.
So, don’t worry about calling me high-strung. And definitely don’t worry that you’re telling me something new. After all, as a child I chose a fake cash register as a toy so I could play cashier alone and carry out complex transactions smoothly.
