The 25 Body Type Diet

The Body Type Cafe

A Conversation with a Thalamus Body Type

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Listen in on the Body Type Dialogue!

Imagine yourself surrounded by soft jazz, cushy chairs and hot mocha espressos. You've just entered your favorite cafe - and you're there to curl up, relax, and eavesdrop on the latest! This is no ordinary cafe with ordinary conversation. Each one of our Body Type Dialogue stories illustrates how the different body types think, react and deal with each other. You may read a story about a Heart man gushing over a cute latte-drinking Adrenal girl. Or, a Thyroid man may be discussing his marketing budget with his Lymph supervisor. Wherever the conversation leads you, you'll come away with a better understanding of the 25 Body Types, and learn how they may react in real-life conversations.

We hope you enjoy these whimsical stories and they help you gain a deeper understanding of the 25 Body Types.

The notice from the county sat on Paul's mail pile for two days. Paul knew well enough what it was. After all, he had avoided 3 others just like it. This time, though, when he opened the notice for jury duty, he was curious. "What type of person ends up serving on a jury? Anyone with any wherewith-al can easily get out of it."

Paul grabbed a pen from his desk and started to fill out the form. When he got to the part about why he couldn't serve, he thought for a moment. "Hmm, I wonder which excuse I should use this time." He carefully reviewed the exclusions list on the form, and then a novel idea popped into his head. "Hey, I think I'll do it this time. I think I'll show up for jury duty. This could even be an adventure. I'm always lecturing my eighth graders about things like civic responsibility, and I can use this as an example. I might be pretty good at it. Besides, I have to see what kind of person serves on a jury!"


Always the responsible sort, Paul made sure his alarm was set early for the morning of his jury duty appointment. He woke up excited. This was definitely going to be a new experience, and new things in Paul's life were getting fewer and farther between. Paul prided himself on knowing a little something about nearly everything, and he looked forward to adding this to his list. "Wouldn't do to be late for my first day," he declared to himself as he headed out his front door.

Paul was half an hour early for his appointment, and there were few people in the courthouse. After passing through the metal detector, he asked the guard where the superior court jurors were supposed to report. The guard directed him up the escalator to the third floor jury lounge. After wandering around for five or ten minutes making himself familiar with the layout of the building, the location of the rest rooms, various courtrooms and clerks' offices, he found his way to the jury lounge. Paul walked into the empty room and was amazed by the size of it. There were nearly one hundred chairs, he observed. Paul felt a little sad. "There must be a lot of people in trouble every day to need a room this size just for the jury pool," he thought.

Paul took a number of pamphlets from the display near the door and sat down to study what he could about being a juror. While sitting and reading, he became aware of a high-pitched whirring noise, not very loud, but constant, and clear enough to seriously grate on his nerves. "Probably a ventilation fan," he thought, making a note in his ever present steno pad to tell someone about the problem. In the next several minutes, the sound seemed to disappear and was replaced with the sound of people starting to fill the room. Paul looked up from his reading to watch his fellow jurors gradually fill the room. People, Paul noticed, seemed to come in every size, shape and description.

The pamphlets Paul read described the process of a jury trial. First there would be waiting—up to three days waiting. Then came the jury polling process, where the various attorneys asked potential jurors questions about their opinions and beliefs in an attempt to pick the most appropriate ones. The trial process was covered next, and then, finally, the part everyone knows about—the verdict. Paul found the material engaging and most informative. So much so, he nearly missed his name being called from the front of the room. Now this was exciting. "Wow, I'm being called already. Lucky me," he thought as he jumped up and moved quickly to the front of the room. He was disappointed when he realized it was only to receive a name badge and to sign in.

In the next several hours, Paul must have spoken with a dozen different people, asking each the same questions. What do they do for work. Why were they here when it's so easy to get out of it, especially when it doesn't pay, and when it seems to be so boring. What people said they did for a living varied a lot from unemployed construction workers to highly paid stockbrokers. There was even another Junior High schoolteacher like himself. However, the answers for why people were there seemed to fall into one of two distinct categories. Either, "I've never done this before and thought it would be interesting," or "It's my responsibility for living in a free society."

With his curiosity about who would be a juror sated, and after reading all that was available about the process, Paul settled in for the wait. The squeak of the fan motor came back into his awareness. He reached into his shoulder bag and pulled out his portable CD player. Music had always had a profound effect on Paul ever since he was a young boy. He could be energized by it, calmed by it, or transported in his imagination to fantastic and beautiful places by it. With music, Paul could easily deal with crowded rooms, long waits, and noisy appliances. But, as it turned out, he wouldn't have to wait much longer. Directly after lunch break, Paul was called to the front of the room with a group of twenty or so others and sent down the hall to the Superior 7 courtroom.

After filing into the spectator section of the courtroom, the group was addressed by the Judge. They were told this was a case involving a charge of driving under the influence and that it would probably take no longer than a day, or possibly two. They were also told about the jury selection process and cautioned not to take it personally if they were not selected. For the next hour, Paul listened to a dozen more detailed queries of what people did for a living and what they thought about being here. He was starting to get antsy and longed to listen to his CD player, but it wasn't much longer before it was his turn. Excited and ready to answer myriad questions in great detail, Paul was surprised when after very few simple questions, he was chosen for the jury. "Both sides must have seen something in me they liked. That was a shooin if ever I saw one," he thought as he took his seat in the gallery.

With the jury impaneled and alternates chosen, the trial was set to begin. The defendant, a clean-cut young man in his twenties, entered the courtroom. The charges were read by the judge and a plea of not guilty to one count of drunk driving was entered. The judge turned to the jury and gave them a detailed set of instructions as to how they should consider the testimony and other information they would hear. The district attorney came forward and made his opening statement, and the trial began in earnest.

Paul looked on as the scene unfolded in front of him, and he felt a tremendous sense of responsibility. After all, he and the others were going to make a very important decision which could affect this young man's life for a long time. Paul listened and watched intently, making notes of every relevant piece of information or impression. The testimony would take just over an hour, after which Paul and his fellow jurors were led past the judge and down the hall to a special room.

Inside the jury chamber, the bailiff reiterated the instructions of the judge and explained how they could contact him if they had a problem or had reached a decision. Then he left the room, shutting and locking the door behind him. Paul shuddered as he heard the metallic sliding of the locking mechanism. "Geesh, who are the prisoners here, anyway?” he said under his breath.

The moment the bailiff left, everyone started to speak at once. Paul listened as the others in the room vied for an opportunity to pronounce their opinion about the guilt or innocence of the defendant. Loudest and most aggressive of all was a middle-aged man, a welder named Sal. Sal was convinced that this drunk was caught red-handed and should pay dearly for coming to court and trying to snivel out of the punishment.

Paul was uncomfortable with the group's casual judgment of the defendant. Based on his careful consideration, he felt that even if the young man had been drinking, the state had not convincingly ruled out the possibility they had made a mistake. In Paul's mind, there was definitely a reasonable doubt here.

Paul made a comment to the group which was largely ignored. He spoke up a little louder. "Excuse me, but I think the first order of business is to pick a jury foreman." The room quieted.

"Of course," came Sal's reply, "I can do that!" Several members of the group nodded their heads in support.

Paul could feel his pulse speed up as he thought to himself, "I don't think so.” Then, speaking aloud, he asked, "Is there anyone else in the group who would like to volunteer?"

"Why don't you do it?" came a woman's voice.

Before answering, Paul thought, “Well, this is certainly turning out to be work, but I can’t imagine a more worthwhile endeavor.”

"Sure, I'd be glad to be considered. Why don't we all take out our notes and talk about it."

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