Why Do We Call Some People 'Type A'?

iStock
iStock

We all have at least a few Type A people in our lives, and we might have even butted heads with one or two of them. The highly competitive, angry, impatient, perfectionist sort of person who strives to be the best at everything is a familiar type, whether you consider them models of success or workaholics with tunnel vision.

"I tell my students, they call it Type A, not Type B, for a reason," Susan Whitbourne, a psychologist based at the University of Massachusetts Amherst, tells Mental Floss. "You want to be Type A-plus, if you're Type A."

The phrase Type A wasn't just born out of the ether: It was created as a way to identify people with certain patterns of behavior prevalent among those with coronary heart disease. In the 1950s, a pair of American cardiologists, Meyer Friedman and Ray Rosenman, were sharing an office in San Francisco when an upholsterer repairing their waiting-room furniture made an odd remark. He was surprised by the wear pattern on their chairs, he said, in which only the front edges of the seats were worn, rather than the back. Patients were literally waiting on the edges of their seats for their name to be called—rather than reclining comfortably toward the back.

At first the pair were too busy to take much note of the upholsterer's comments. But in the mid-1950s, they began looking at the literature around coronary heart disease and wondering if something other than diet (then painted as the most significant culprit) might be playing a part. In a 1956 study of San Francisco Junior League members, they found that diet and smoking didn't seem like adequate explanations for the different rates of heart disease they were seeing in women and men, since husbands and wives tended to share the same food and smoking habits. Female hormones were dismissed as a factor, since black women were suffering just as much heart disease as their husbands. They discussed the issue with the president of the Junior League, who responded, "If you really want to know what is going to give our husbands heart attacks, I'll tell you … It's stress."

That's when Friedman and Rosenman remembered the upholsterer's remarks, and began researching the link between stressed-out, achievement-driven behavior and heart disease. In 1959, they identified a type of behavior pattern they called Type A—highly competitive, very concerned with time management, and aggressive—and found that patients with this behavior pattern had seven times the frequency of clinical coronary artery disease compared to other groups.

The pair also created a Type B label, which basically encompassed behaviors and attitudes that weren't defined as Type A. People with Type B behavior were easy-going and enjoyed lower levels of stress, and while they may have been just as ambitious and driven, they seemed more secure and steady. The pair wrote a popular 1974 book about their research, Type A Behavior and Your Heart, which helped spread their ideas in the general consciousness. And while their initial emphasis was on behavior patterns, not entire personalities, the public quickly began referring to Type A and Type B personality types.

Over the next few years researchers began accepting that there could be a link between Type A behaviors, especially hostility, and lethal heart failure. The picture of the fuming man with high blood pressure who succumbs to a rage-induced heart-attack isn't just a cliché, Whitbourne says. (In fact, some modern studies have supported the idea of an increased risk of heart attack after a bout of intense anger.)

But as time went on, researchers began to notice quite a few problems in the Type A/Type B paradigm. In part this was because our understanding of coronary heart disease improved, and doctors and physiologists began to better understand how diet, physical activity, genetics, and the environment relate to blood pressure and cholesterol. As the decades went on, it became apparent that aggressive personality alone was severely limited in its ability to predict heart disease.

Outside the implications for human health, psychologists also began to critique the Type A/Type B system of personality labeling as reductionist, arguing that it lumped together many different traits and folded them under one of two extremely large umbrellas. Many psychologists now feel that human behavior is too complex and intricate to be described in such a binary way: People might be driven and organized, but not necessarily hostile and prone to angry outbursts. People might also be irritable or impatient, but perhaps rarely cross the threshold into hostility.

"It's not that we don't believe in it anymore," Penn State University psychologist John Johnson tells Mental Floss. "It's just that it's run its course. Type A does have a lot of components, but those are components that can be better explained in other ways in personality psychology."

One prominent newer system for describing personality and behavior is the Five Factor Model, developed in 1961 but not reaching academic prominence until the 1980s. The Five Factor Model assesses personality through five domains: openness, conscientiousness, neuroticism, extraversion, and agreeableness. Johnson likens its impact in personality psychology to the Periodic Table of Elements for chemistry.

Many Type A traits, Johnson says, are probably better described under the Five Factor Model. For example, striving for achievement, a big part of Type A personality behavior, would easily fall under high conscientiousness. Type As might also score high on extraversion, but low on agreeableness, since they're less attuned to see others as collaborators.

But although many psychologists feel the Type A and B model has outlived its usefulness, they say it has an important legacy in modern psychology. "The study of Type A and related personality traits really revolutionized behavioral medicine and behavioral health," Whitbourne says. "There are many psychologists that look at behavior and health hand-in-hand," and much of this work has a foundation in what Type A pioneered, according to Whitbourne.

So if many psychologists (not to mention cardiologists) feel the framework is outdated, why do we still call people Type A? According to Johnson, one of the biggest reasons probably has to do with how easy it is to recognize. "We all know people who are very driven and single-minded about achieving something, but they don't treat other people very well," he says. "It's a familiar thing to most of us."

Keep Your Cat Busy With a Board Game That Doubles as a Scratch Pad

Cheerble
Cheerble

No matter how much you love playing with your cat, waving a feather toy in front of its face can get monotonous after a while (for the both of you). To shake up playtime, the Cheerble three-in-one board game looks to provide your feline housemate with hours of hands-free entertainment.

Cheerble's board game, which is currently raising money on Kickstarter, is designed to keep even the most restless cats stimulated. The first component of the game is the electronic Cheerble ball, which rolls on its own when your cat touches it with their paw or nose—no remote control required. And on days when your cat is especially energetic, you can adjust the ball's settings to roll and bounce in a way that matches their stamina.

Cheerable cat toy on Kickstarter.
Cheerble

The Cheerble balls are meant to pair with the Cheerble game board, which consists of a box that has plenty of room for balls to roll around. The board is also covered on one side with a platform that has holes big enough for your cat to fit their paws through, so they can hunt the balls like a game of Whack-a-Mole. And if your cat ever loses interest in chasing the ball, the board also includes a built-in scratch pad and fluffy wand toy to slap around. A simplified version of the board game includes the scratch pad without the wand or hole maze, so you can tailor your purchase for your cat's interests.

Cheerble cat board game.
Cheerble

Since launching its campaign on Kickstarter on April 23, Cheerble has raised over $128,000, already blowing past its initial goal of $6416. You can back the Kickstarter today to claim a Cheerble product, with $32 getting you a ball and $58 getting you the board game. You can make your pledge here, with shipping estimated for July 2020.

At Mental Floss, we only write about the products we love and want to share with our readers, so all products are chosen independently by our editors. Mental Floss has affiliate relationships with certain retailers and may receive a percentage of any sale made from the links on this page. Prices and availability are accurate as of the time of publication.

“Slick” Julia Lyons: The Con Artist Who Posed as a Nurse During the 1918 Flu Pandemic—Then Robbed Her Patients

An actual nurse tends to a patient during the 1918 influenza pandemic.
An actual nurse tends to a patient during the 1918 influenza pandemic.
Harris & Ewing, Library of Congress, Wikimedia Commons // Public Domain

In September 1918, a 23-year-old woman “of marvelous gowns and haughty mien” was arrested at Chicago’s La Salle Hotel after a crime spree that included posing as a Department of Justice representative, cashing stolen checks, and performing “various miracles at getting ready money,” according to a Chicago Tribune article.

The authorities underestimated their slippery prisoner, who escaped from the South Clark Street police station before answering for her alleged offenses. By no means, however, had her brush with the law scared her straight. Soon after her police station disappearing act, Julia Lyons—also known as Marie Walker, Ruth Hicks, Mrs. H. J. Behrens, and a range of other aliases—concocted an even more devious scheme.

The Rose-Lipped, Pearly-Toothed Price Gouger

As The Washington Post reports, Chicago was in the throes of the 1918 influenza pandemic that fall, and hospitals were enlisting nurses to tend to patients at home. Lyons, correctly assuming that healthcare officials wouldn’t be vetting volunteers very thoroughly, registered as a nurse under several pseudonyms and spent the next two months caring for a string of ailing men and women across the city.

Lyons’s modus operandi was simple: After getting a prescription filled, she’d charge her patient much more than the actual cost. Once, she claimed $63 for a dose of oxygen that had actually cost $5 (which, once adjusted for inflation, is the same as charging $1077 for an $85 item today). Sometimes, “Flu Julia,” as the Chicago Tribune nicknamed her, even summoned a so-called doctor—later identified by the police as a “dope seller and narcotic supplier”—to forge the prescriptions for her. Then she’d flee the property, absconding with cash, jewelry, clothing, and any other valuables she could find lying around the house.

As for the physical well-being of her flu-ridden victims, Lyons could not have cared less. When 9-year-old Eddie Rogan fetched her to help his older brother George, who was “out of his head with illness,” Lyons retorted, “Oh, let him rave. He’s used to raving.” Unsurprisingly, George died.

Though pitiless at times, Lyons flashed her “rose-lipped smile and pearly teeth” and fabricated charming stories to gain the confidence of her clueless patients. To win over “old Father Shelhauer,” for example, she asked, “Don’t you remember me? Why, when I was a little girl I used to hitch on your wagons!” Shelhauer believed her, and threw a snooping detective off the scent by vouching for Lyons, whom he said he had known since she was a little girl.

Clever as she was, Lyons couldn’t evade capture forever. In November 1918, detectives eventually linked her to Eva Jacobs, another “girl of the shady world,” and wiretapped the home of “Suicide Bess” Davis, where Jacobs was staying. Through their eavesdropping, they discovered Lyons’s plans to marry a restaurant owner named Charlie. They trailed Charlie, who unwittingly led them straight to his new—and felonious—bride.

“The wedding’s all bust up! You got me!,” Lyons shouted as the detectives surrounded her. They carted the couple back to the station, where they asked a bewildered Charlie how long he had known Lyons. “Ten days!” he said. “That is, I thought I knew her.”

When it came time for Lyons to appear in court, Deputy Sheriff John Hickey volunteered to transport her.

“Be careful, she’s pretty slick,” Chief Bailiff John C. Ryan told him. “Don’t let her get away.” Detectives Frank Smith and Robert Jacobs, who had headed the investigation and arrested Lyons in the first place, echoed the sentiment, citing Lyons’s previous escape from South Clark Street.

“She’ll go if she gets a chance. Better put the irons on,” Jacobs advised. Hickey shook off their warnings with a casual “Oh, she won’t get away from me.”

He was wrong.

“Slick Julia” Escapes Again

Hickey did successfully deposit Lyons at the courthouse, where about 50 victims testified against her. An hour and a half after Hickey left with Lyons to bring her back to jail, however, the police received a phone call from an “excited” Hickey with some shocking news: Lyons had leapt from the moving vehicle and climbed into a getaway car—which sped away so quickly that Hickey had no hopes of chasing it down.

Hickey’s story seemed fishy. For one, he mentioned that they had stopped at a bank so Lyons could withdraw some cash, leading officials to believe that Hickey may have accepted a bribe to set her free. They also happened to be suspiciously far from their intended destination.

“If they were way out there,” Ryan told the Chicago Tribune, “They must have been cabareting together.”

Furthermore, a friend of Lyons named Pearl Auldridge actually confessed to the police that the entire plot had been prearranged with Hickey. He was suspended, and investigators were forced to resume their hunt for “Slick Julia.”

A Schemer 'Til the End

In March 1919, after poring through nurses’ registries for a possible lead, detectives finally located Lyons, under the name Mrs. James, at a house on Fullerton Boulevard, where she was caring for a Mrs. White.

“Mrs. M.S. James, née Flu Julia, née Slicker Julia, who walked away one November day from former Deputy Sheriff John Hickey, walked back into custody, involuntarily, last night,” the Chicago Tribune wrote on March 21, 1919.

In addition to her 19 previous counts of larceny, “obtaining money by false pretenses,” and “conducting a confidence game,” Lyons racked up a new charge: bigamy. Her marriage to Charlie the restaurateur still existed on paper, and Lyons had taken a new husband, a soldier named E.M. James, whom she had known for four days.

With no unscrupulous officer around to help Lyons escape yet again, she was left to the mercy of the court system. True to her sobriquet, “Slick Julia” stayed scheming until the very end of her trial, first claiming that she had been forced into committing crimes against her will by a “band of thieves,” and then pleading insanity. Nobody was convinced; the jury found Lyons guilty of larceny and the judge sentenced her to serve one to 10 years in a penitentiary.

Just like that, “Flu Julia” traded in her nurse's uniform for a prison uniform—though whether she donned her healthcare costume again after her release remains a mystery.