Rebel at Heart, Obliger by Nature

In The Four Tendencies, author Gretchen Rubin filters the population into four personality types: Upholder, Questioner, Rebel, and Obliger. To describe the Obliger as “conflict-averse” would be hitting the nail on the head with a hydrogen bomb. Obligers are far and away the most passive of the personality types—these are your silent sufferers. That friend of yours who will change planned weekend getaway to meet you for coffee because you had a stressful week? She’s an Obliger. She may have just lost her arms in a thresher accident, but since she’s an Obliger, she won’t bother you with her own travails, she’ll just nod and listen, wishing she was at home bleeding out in the privacy of her own bathtub. Then she will pick up the bill, because you are such a good friend. 

I am an Obliger, by nature. 

I am eleven years old. There’s this bully named Geirke. Big ears, bad breath, a foot and a half taller than every other fifth grader. He’s been relentlessly antagonizing my friends and me for weeks. On the playground, Geirke gives me an atomic wedgie. I emit a high-pitched squeal and need to visit the school nurse immediately after. Another day, I’m standing in line at the lunchroom, talking to my secret crush Marissa, when Geirke pulls my sweatpants down around my ankles. I drop my lunch tray in a frantic maneuver to cover my exposed bare ass-cheeks. Tuna noodle casserole, green beans, and chocolate pudding splatter to the floor. Geirke steals plastic straws from McDonalds and then spends Social Studies pelting me in the back of the neck with spitballs he made from moistened pages of his textbook. I silently oblige all Geirke’s bad behavior as a penance—in Sunday School that year, the nuns taught me all about penance. If I didn’t confess my sins to Father Halverson and perform a penance for those sins, I was guaranteed to go to Hell. Getting bullied by Geirke was probably my penance for not cleaning the litter box or for calling the neighbor lady a “cock-whore” that time in second grade.

Adolescent Obliger (sauvagicus obligicus) in the wild, no doubt doing an acquaintance’s homework

The Obliger sees their needs as less important than those of others—these are your door-mats, your Iditarod dogs. The Obliger willingly takes on more external obligations than a reasonable person would care to shoulder, but in so doing, often fail to take care of themselves. They eat Taco Bell because they are too busy cooking for others to plan a healthy meal for themselves. They skip the gym because they are too busy reviewing their coworker’s presentation notes. When happy-go-lucky non-Obligers try to intervene—You need a spa day! or I use meditation as a way to ground myself in the present moment!—the Obliger laughs out loud. The concept of having enough time to do something nice for themselves is a riot. “If only there were 36 hours in a day...” they smile wryly, while secretly acknowledging they would spend 35 of those hours obliging others.

 I am thirty-two years old and I’m composing the score for a short film, gratis. The director/writer/lead actor calls it a “Western Noir”. The story is bad, the acting is worse, and the music is bordering on maniacal, but I am dedicated to doing the job. I know I will receive no pay, or even recognition for my work, but I am obliged to finish what I started. During the eight months I spend composing, orchestrating, performing, recording, and revising the music, I lose, over and over. I commit to band practices but fail to show up because I’m working on a picture-lock deadline for Savage Noir. This happens often enough that I finally get a terse text from Rob, who is obviously an Upholder: “Sounds like the band isn’t really a priority for you anymore, Josh.” I begin to wonder exactly what my priorities are once my rocky marriage reaches a crevice of no return, culminating in divorce. I can’t even commit to carving out the last half-hour of my day to watch Curb Your Enthusiasm, because I’m too tired from overcommitting. It’s pretty, pretty, pretty…not good.

The Obliger is prone to snapping. These are your glue huffers, your bar brawlers. Granted, as far as brawling is concerned, Rebels are equally as culpable. If you’re looking for someone to break up a bar brawl, locate an Upholder (these are your saints, your Eagle Scouts), or at the very least, a Questioner (your naïfs, your exploitative middle managers). When neighbors later proclaim I never would have guessed she had it in her, or he seemed like such a kind, quiet lad, they’re referring to Obligers. 

I am thirty-five years old and I’ve unceremoniously walked out on a promising new career as a government bureaucrat. I’m giving it all up to enroll in yoga teacher training. I picture myself shirtless, on a beach in Belize, leading sun salutations to a group of wealthy British tourists. My parents are both frowning at me from the couch. Sleet pelts their living room window like Geirke’s spitballs pelted my neck in fifth grade. I know this is serious though, because it’s 6:30 and they’ve turned off Wheel of Fortune. This feels like that time in high school when I careened into their driveway behind the wheel of a new Chevy Cavalier I purchased on a high-interest MasterCard. Or that time I told them my first choice, backup, and safety colleges were all in Hawaii. 

“What about retirement, son?” My Dad, retired for ten years, pleads (he’s an Upholder).

“Retirement!” I laugh obnoxiously, and for too long. “My generation doesn’t get to retire!” 

Boomers. Amirite?

“Well, as long as you’re happy...” my Mom shrugs. She’s an Obliger too.