While recently bored, a common plague I endure – I’m often too bored to grapple with being simply restless – I decided to take an online personality quiz.

As I teetered between Cosmopolitan magazine’s “Who said it best, a Kardarshian-Jenner or Ernest Hemingway?” or “How Texan are you?” I took a tour around the interweb, as someone in line at a store called it (“I have a coupon. I got it off the interweb”) and found out some fascinating things about me. (Not particularly).

To be fair, the first personality quiz I found said I did well on the test but would have to report to an office in New Delhi in order to get my official results. Holy cow, I thought.

Anywho, it turns out I’m an entertainer.

I’m told via this predictable quiz, that I’m 78% extraverted, 76% observant (versus intuitive), 64% feeling (versus thinking), 64% prospecting (versus judging) and 99% assertive. Take that, my high school guidance counselor.

According to my answers, I spontaneously break out into song and dance, I’m generous and stylish, I love the nightlife (I apparently like to boogie), I soak up ambition and there’s no greater joy for me than to be hanging out with my posse.

Ahem.

I do not sing, nor do I dance. Hire a monkey and put out a tin cup. What do I look like, Lancelot Link?

However, if I were to break out into song, it would likely be the ditty, “There’s something sensual about your Nana,” or the equally catchy, “You’re the reason our kids are so ugly.”

I am generous, because I hate the awkwardness of fumbling over the bill. Flip a coin. Indian leg wrestle. Play Russian roulette. Anything. There’s an hour wait to be seated so shake you moneymakers.

I always enjoy watching two couples have a grand time over dinner and drinks and then turn into a four-person accounting firm when the bill comes. Green visors on the heads, 10-key punch on the table, these chums have a friendly spat as to who had three glasses of wine versus the price of the top-shelf martini. If you ever want to see a server’s eyes roll completely back in their head like a Reno slot machine, just quibble over the check and watch.

I am persnickety about my wardrobe. Yes, I’m a guy and I used the term wardrobe. I tend to fuss about my appearance because I’m vain. If you know me, it’s not a secret. If you want to walk into a room like you own it, it helps if your shirt tail is not sticking out of your fly, you’re not wearing “mom jeans” or a Members Only jacket (because, of course, only a member would wear a pseudo-bomber jacket), and your shoes look like you’ve spent time riding the rails. Or look orthopedic.

I do not, however, at any point, pout my lips like a fish and take selfies to post on Instagram. I save those for my annual Christmas cards or my new driver’s license photo.

I do like a good party, a fun time out, a packed concert, a busy city or anything that’s been known to hustle. Add bustle.

That said, I also like to crawl into bed with a nightcap (the drink, not the sock hat), and a good book.

I’ve lived in a lot of major cities – from New York City to L.A. to Miami. Needless to say, being a wallflower in a field of frenzy gets you nowhere fast.

I have painted many a town red. I have made merry and whoopee. I have undoubtedly caroused. And yes, I have woken up on South Beach laying in the sand, wearing a perfectly tailored suit. And no, my shirt tail was not caught in my fly.

The bit about soaking up ambition was interesting.

I have soaked up the sun, I have soaked in a tub, I have soaked up a spilled beer, I have soaked up vodka, I have soaked in the limelight and I have soaked up half my brain.

I would assume that since ambition could be a contagious character trait, it’s worth being ambitious if you’re ambitious enough to gain a little knowledge, shuffle off to Carthage and have a Hanni-ball.

And get this: I’m sensitive. Who knew? This can’t be good. I have a certain reputation to protect.

But … when people like me have a problem, the magic 8-ball says we tend to become introspective. So, if the phone doesn’t ring, it’s probably me.

So, as I’m late for this column deadline, it is important that I illustrate that while “entertainers” do focus on immediate pleasures, repetitive tasks are not easy activities.

Tell that to J-Lo. She’s doing umpteen shows a week at Planet Hollywood in Vegas, at $350,000 at pop. For that kind of money, I’ll even break out into a song and dance. And the name of my show, based on a minor radio hit I had in 1980s, “I’m so miserable without you, it’s just like having you around.”

George Pelletier may be reached at gpelletier@nashuatelegraph.com

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