When I told a friend the name of my new blog, she replied, “Should there be a dash or space after the A? Ha ha!” Ha, ha indeed. My attempts to convince people that I am only slightly Type A are akin to attempts to convince people that one is only slightly pregnant: futile, possibly cute, and all together ignoring the obvious. One look at my furtive border collie eyes, my twitchy energy, my overscheduled time, and my sense of go-go-go betrays me in an instant. (Et tu, Type A?)

But what happens when a Type A has a midlife crisis, realizes the extent of her gloom and despair, and vows to be happy? She becomes a Type ALC: a person who applies her relentless energy, ambition, and striving to have a more joyous, more fulfilling life. Her days become a veritable war on happiness. She becomes a Zen god, but only in the sense of the proverbial duck: smooth on the surface, paddling like hell underneath.

So in that spirit, I bring you this blog. Damn the happiness torpedoes and see what happens.

ALC