I have won the civil service lottery. Pack yer bags, Rhonda, you’ve been called to serve your country! Yes, that’s right folks; from now on please call me, victim of involuntary servitude, juror number 0086.

I entered “jury duty” in the blog search mechanism, to see what other people are saying about their anointment into the world of $6.00 pay and $7.00 parking. In return, I received a plethora of nauseatingly positive adjectives:

From the patriotic: duty, honor, pride, privilege and opportunity. (duty to sit there, pride of mastering sleeping with your eyes open, privilege of getting screwed out of the ability to pay your bills and the opportunity to see how many hours it takes your ass to go completely numb.)

From the painfully naïve: exciting, dramatic, suspenseful and challenging. (Turn off CourtTV, drop the remote and step away from your televisions, people.)

Pardon my judicial pessimism. The likelihood a summons will result in actual deliberations isn't overwhelmingly great. Still, the moment I saw the summons staring menacingly at me from the mailbox, I was searching for an excuse. It isn’t that I take citizenship for granted or harbor the narcissistic belief my time is more valuable than anyone else’s. It’s that I am a hopelessly odd duck. If you’re looking for a “jury of your peers,” I am not your gal.

Years ago, some friends and I took the Keirsey Temperament Test. It revealed the essence of my personality matches less than one percent of the population. Another personality test done in a clinical setting (and no, the setting wasn’t a psych ward, for those of you wondering) ranked me unusually off the charts in the area of abstract thinking. What that means in a nutshell (or nut-head, as it were) is that I see infinite forests but fail to notice trees. I think in metaphors and abstractions. And, sometimes, I am so busy contemplating every intricate nuance of an issue I forget all about my obligations in the literal moment.

Keirsey considers me an Idealist/Healer. Citizens, you don’t want one of those in your jury pool, especially one lost in abstract thought. While my fellow jurors and I might agree the plaintiff is an unsalvageable sociopath deserving no mercy, I’ll be wondering: How does it f-e-e-e-e-e-l to be an unsalvageable sociopath? And, I will not feel any bit of contentment until I have unearthed the holy grail of sociopathology itself. In fact, I’ll . . . Vote? Verdict? What verdict? Huh?

Your honor, my presence in this courtroom cannot possibly benefit society. I am a hung jury waiting to happen – and I have the test results to prove it.

That’s my excuse and I am sticking to it.