I love lists. I love boxes. I love my Notes app.
Though it seems a simple application that could be easily replaced by Google Docs, Messages, or even Voice Memos, it’s probably my favorite little square in my cell phone. In my notes app, I become a poet. I become a philosopher. But most importantly, I become organized.
Lists upon lists exist in this endless filing cabinet of notes, names, and memorandums. I love its versatility. Anything from “Homework” to “Missing TCT stories” to “future baby names” to “me core” exists in the infinite database, which I can find easily by searching just a few keywords.
One such list that some friends own and operate is titled “Garb quotes,” complete with a boundless barrage of Mr. Garbowitz’s advice, odd sayings, and random philosophical discussions often held in the final minutes of my Algebra 2 class. One such discussion held in the dregs of fourth hour was the concept of personality types, more specifically, “type A” versus “type B.”
I pondered, for a moment, which type I was, but my thoughts were quickly interrupted by my friend’s refutation of the binary system, calmly reminding the class that there aren’t just two categories to place people in, that the whole idea was silly in principle. I agreed with him, of course, but wondered…why the theory existed in the first place.
How odd it is that we like to fit people into boxes. Just two categories for an endless range of personas to be forced into. We’re human. It’s in our instinct to recognize patterns to protect us from danger.
To help us recognize the impending sound of a rattlesnake about to pounce, to help us hide from the leering eye of the tiger. To let us know when a storm is coming by the nature of the sky, the scent of the air, the gloomy dread of the atmosphere.
We like boxes.
They help us recognize patterns, social cues. They help us know what a certain look means, from “Let’s leave” to “Help!” to “We’ll talk about this later.” They help us recognize the twitch of an eye as annoyance, the twitch of the nose and upper lip as disgust, and the cock of an eyebrow as confusion.
They help us keep track of specific details and stay organized. They help us remember our brothers’ favorite colors, the kind of jewelry our friends wear, and the map of freckles across our mothers’ faces.
Placing people into boxes, anywhere from “gold girlie” to “doesn’t like me” to “theater kid” to “type B,” helps us stay afloat. Boxes help us know what is socially relevant and what is not.
Not only do we like putting others into boxes, but we like finding our own. I know I do. Taking endless Buzzfeed quizzes, creating Pinterest board upon Pinterest boards, and choosing what clubs to do all lead to boxes. I want a box to fit in. I want to belong.
Despite our inherent instinct to categorize every aspect of our lives, I know that everyone is unique. Every being has a different pattern and different prongs, all creating a uniquely different snowflake. But I know I can’t keep myself from organizing every aspect of my life; I won’t stop trying to make sense of why people are the way they are.
Most importantly, I won’t stop making lists, and I’ll never stop loving my notes app.
