How Your Enneagram Type Shovels Snow

We woke up to 4 inches of snow in KC. A few weeks late for a White Christmas, but pretty nonetheless. My lazy rear didn’t get out of bed until a time that started with a 9, which was glorious, but Brooke wasn’t as lucky.

She woke up ready to go. And by the time I had my first cup of coffee poured, I realized she had already shoveled our entire driveway, sidewalk, and side of the house.

In related news, she’s a baller.

I love driving in the snow, so I quickly volunteered for the birthday donut run for our oldest. It was still snowing softly when we were gone, and when I came back there was a 1/2″ or so covering up Brooke’s beautiful work.

With the super hard work out of the way, I got to do the second cleaning, and the way I went about it was very Enneagram 7 of me. No real pattern. Meandering through the maze I was creating. Some long horizontal swipes, then a few vertical ones, mixed in with a diagonal push or two. All without gloves.

It got me thinking. How do the different Enneagram types think about shoveling snow? Because Brooke’s way (Enneagram 1) was a million times better, and more efficient, than mine.

So here goes, all with humor and sarcasm in mind, not judgment 🙂

Ones: No rest until the drive is spotless. Heck, this job starts long before the snow starts falling. Salt application at the first hint of weather. Shovels laid out in precise places. Weather report understood (and then fact checked with other sources). Perfectly prepared plans are then executed with precision. Before long, all the neighbors are gathered around as you teach the art of Shoveling for Dummies (all non-1’s). The one tiny spot you missed haunts you for the remainder of eternity.

Twos: Up early before the rest of the sluggards in your house, you tackled the driveway but only after clearing up everyone’s messes from the night before, washing the piles of snow clothes, and making the best, big breakfast (and cleaning it up). They all went off to play or stare at their phones, leaving you with more dishes, then the driveway duties. After shoveling your own, you sacrificially shovel three of your neighbors’ driveways as well. Out of the goodness of your heart, kind of, while secretly resenting them for not giving you adequate attention. “Don’t you realize how much I do for y’all? Ugh…”

Threes: You put on a show shoveling show. Plastic shovels be dammed, you rolled out of the garage with the latest and greatest snowblower that blasted those flakes two counties away. Your tripod “happened” to be set up in the street to perfectly capture the time lapse, because the before and after is just too “authentic” of content to not be shared with your social media friends. Look good, shovel good.

Fours: The cold just looks unbearable, and the snow, insurmountable! What kind of maniacs would ever dare venture into such terrain? But wait? Can you imagine the song that could be composed whilst freezing to near death? On the brink of disaster, I can find deep inspiration. Please hold on while I bundle up with every imaginable layer, then let’s get to song writing. As brutal as it’s going to be.

Fives: According to your calculations, and your evaluation of the circumstances, this driveway stands no chance against your spreadsheet. You’ve run every scenario, and your system is foolproof. You methodically get after it, only to realize you didn’t account for the ice layer underneath the snow. Your normally calm self begins to freak out, become as flighty as a 7 and speak gibberish at your spreadsheet incessantly.

Sixes: The risks FAR outweigh the rewards. So you hire someone. “But what if they get hurt?”

Sevens: After zig-zagging playfully through the winter wonderland, trying to beat an imaginary world record, you leave your 41% completed responsibility to begin recruiting for the neighborhood’s biggest snowball fight, football game, or some other distraction from the constraints of what once seemed so fun. When you realize there’s already a large gathering to which you weren’t invited, you return with seething resentment to your shovel, because facing such pain through a conversation would certainly lead to death. Your return to reality is cut short when you remember there is hot chocolate inside. With marshmallows. So you do one snow angel, hoping it will ease your angst, and then flutter to the cocoa to drown your anxiety.

Eights: You realize (and demand) that snow shoveling is a team sport, not a solo adventure. You bark (you call it delegating) the duties to your enlisted army, while you command clear (at least to you) instructions on how to best perform this task to ensure neighborhood dominance. This lasts for a period of time until you realize you can, will, and do do it better, so you do. What idiots.

Nines: Knowing the snow will melt in six days (or six weeks, it really doesn’t matter), yours is the driveway left un-shoveled. “That’s why we have four-wheel drive vehicles, plus the tire tracks will help create the walkway to the mailbox. We don’t really need the mail for awhile either actually. I think it will be fine. Unless you really want me to do the shoveling now? I’m happy to do it if you really want me to do it? Do you? Just tell me what you think.”

How did you attack (or avoid) your driveway this weekend?

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