As promised, here are the answers to last week’s quiz, “What Kind of Woman are You?," as adapted from Cosmopolitan magazine.
KEY: A = 1 point; B = 2 points; C = 3 points; D = 4 points
0-6: Humblebrag Frienemy: You’re the woman every other woman loves to hate. If it were up to your frienemies, they'd break into your Frank Lloyd Wright-inspired beach-front home in the night; kidnap you; tie you up with decorative polka-dot ribbon on your kitchen island’s granite counter-top; roast you in the red clay chiminea on your patio; chop you up into little pieces with your sharpest Shun Classic Hollow-Ground 4” Santoku kitchen knife; stick you in a dozen Tupperware containers in your sub-zero freezer; and turn your rock-hard glutes into fondue cubes for their next book club meeting (Barbara Kingsolver’s The Poisonwood Bible). Your life is Pinterest-perfect, and you make sure everyone knows it: You just gave a wildly popular TED (not even TEDx) Talk on work-life balance; your kids won first place in the school science fair with their stupid volcano; their lunch boxes look like they were packed by (the no-longer-incarcerated) Martha Stewart herself; and they never do obnoxious things like copy every word you say, blow spit bubbles, and/or drop their wet towels on the floor. Your husband does 100 sit-ups and push-ups at 5:00 a.m. every morning, and then brings you a spinach and egg white omelette with a side of fresh strawberries in bed before going down on you and driving the kids to school, leaving you to start your work day with an hour of quiet yoga and transcendental meditation by the sea. Oh, and the whole world knows all of this, because you just updated your Facebook status to report it. With photos.
7-12: Placated Hamster: Overall, you're pretty happy with your life. Well, at least as long as you keep running in that plastic wheel, eating your pellets, and dropping regular turds on your proverbial bed of straw. You thumb mindlessly through the “Celebrities, they’re just like us!” feature of US Weekly in an effort to distract yourself from the ever-widening gulf between the woman you are and the woman you thought you'd be as a young girl, when becoming the first female president, an astronaut, or an opera singer seemed remotely realistic. As those possibilities telescope inward toward impossibility with each passing 24-hour cycle of interrupted sleep; domestic morning mayhem that culminates in your blazer coated in a thin layer of maple syrup; and reply-all emails about service upgrades, you begin to favor websites like Boredpanda and Etsy. That's where you let yourself zone out into a shame spiral about how you'll never go sailing around Fiji or make hand-knit beanie hats for victims of the Nepal earthquake. The seven-minute New York Times workout looks promising at first, but after three days it suddenly feels six minutes too long. The highlight of your day is an unusually high number of re-tweets and Facebook likes, and the discovery of three expired Percosets in the back of your medicine cabinet after 5:00 p.m. on a weeknight.
13-24: Demi Moore in St. Elmo’s Fire: You’re a dreamer. Specifically, you daydream of taking out a global terrorist network with hair that looks like it was just featured in a Pantene commercial. But then you remember you have persistent dandruff that the closest you got to Oxford was the Oxford English dictionary. Also you failed to marry George Clooney and are coming home tonight to a basement carpeted with Magentic tile toys and broken doll strollers. So it's kind of miraculous that you don’t spend every day curled up in a ball in the corner of your tiny closet, with your arms wrapped around your legs, rocking back and forth like Demi Moore in St. Elmo’s Fire. Your mind ping-pongs wildly between narcissistic delusions of grandeur and plummeting self-esteem, as you recognize you have nothing to complain about aside from the fact that there is no Chipotle near your home or office. You berate your tendency toward self-pity, daring the universe to drop the other shoe and really give you something to cry about! You know you have to start cherishing the shit out of every minute you have on this planet, yet the task feels daunting. Instead, you spend that time wondering if you should finally read Fifty Shades of Grey and/or start having sex in a dungeon. As the bathroom scale creeps upward for the third consecutive week, you contemplate "making time" for exercise that occurs at neither 5:00 a.m. nor 9:00 p.m., currently the only two apparently viable hours for such an endeavor. And even after more than two decades of menstruating, you're rarely prepared for the arrival of your period, having recently found yourself behind a tree in the woods adjacent to an elementary school playground, discreetly inserting a tampon and washing your hands in a puddle. As you check your online checking account to make sure your last impulsive purchase of plane tickets did not yield an overdraft fee, you fall asleep in a world where a convicted domestic violence offender was just rewarded with $100 million for punching someone's lights out in public.