Tag types

I hate to say it. I mean I really hate to say it. They’re pretty good at rooting their own horns, or at least lecturing on how to toot it daily to keep it in prime condition. And you can bet they’re rooting it on time, to the designated millisecond.

But what would we do without type As?

Half of my clothes would still have that little plastic tag if it weren’t for the type As in my life.

In fiction, you’re either a planner or a pantser (as in flying by the seat of your pants-er). Well in life (and maybe a little in writing), I’m a pantser. Which is to say I’m not a person who can reliably get myself (or my blouse) to a pair of scissors. The fact that the scissors are 14 feet away is not important.

Before you ask, no, the tag doesn’t bother me. No, I don’t notice it. Not even when the shirt is tight. Yes, I know it would drive you crazy just to see it, type As.

For some of us, if it’s out of sight, it’s out of mind. Even when the tag is in sight (which it seldom is because my sterling prose has yet to earn me the millions I would need to afford clothes worth taking off the hanger just to stare at in awe), it’s about as quickly out of mind. Because it’s a tag. And not, rumor has it, the secret to cold fusion. Or world peace (I just checked).

It’s more convenient to simply tear the cardboard tag open to safely remove it from the plastic affixer (or whatever it’s actually called). That can be done in loco. Much better than walking all the way to the kitchen to grab the scissors. By the time I’d do that, I’d forget why I walked in.

If it wasn’t for the type As I’ve lived with, I’d be walking around with a lot more tags on my clothes. (And not noticing them at all.) A hug from Mom still turns up one from time to time — and prompts a demeaning bedraggling to the kitchen to have a tete a tete with the scissors. A type A friend finds one sticking on a collar. He fights the urge, valiantly. But he’s struggling. It’s got to go, not for the sake of our relationship, but to keep him out of the hospital. Poor thing could risk an ulcer.

I used to fight it — what’s it to anyone else if a tag lingers at my back? If anything it’s a reminder to check the washing instructions (yes, Mom, there’s a reason I keep the cloth tag, just like there’s a reason it’s been thoughtfully sewn onto the garment). But re: the ulcer risk, it just feels irresponsible. Someone’s got to worry about these people’s health.

I mean, really, what would type A people do without us?

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Elena Johnson can be reached at ejohnson@cdapress.com.