The only time in my life being labeled “Number One” made me feel like a loser was when I learned my Enneagram while briefly dating Victor. This boy I met through an online dating app started pushing me to find out my Enneagram after our second date, his passion for dissecting personalities apparent as he sent me link after link with tests to find out my designation, followed by analyses and other articles about strengths, weaknesses, and compatibility. Interested in getting to know him better, as we seemed to have much in common, I dived in. I’d heard of Enneagram before but had avoided it because it seemed like too many numbers, and numbers mean math.

With much devastation, I soon discovered that, of the Nine Enneagrams, I am a One. According to the results page, Ones are not particularly adventurous, spontaneous, mysterious, creative, or any kind of romantic. The best way to describe a One seems to be a person with a rather large stick up their ass: “they try to maintain high standards, but can slip into being critical and perfectionistic. They typically have problems with resentment and impatience.” Based on these descriptions, my personality seemed to be one of the least desirable of the Nine types.

Basically, a One is their own worst critic, which can spill into the lives of those around them until they become the worst critic of anyone in their vicinity. A One will ask to speak to the manager if you get their order wrong. Their eyes will bulge if you don’t take your shoes off on their carpeted floors. A One will hyperventilate if you go off-book. They are also prone to self-righteous anger and are uneasy with their emotions. Ones are silently angry but loudly uptight and unbudging. They get off on stressing out everyone around them.

At this point in my studies, I tried to quickly back out of my results, like Woah woah woah. “I really don’t identify with most of this One stuff. Like, yes, I’m critical of myself, but I do a lot of self-talk and have learned to give up control of things in life and—” I couldn’t form my texts to Victor fast enough, and no GIFs could save me. I’ve never tried so hard to prove how chill I am to someone. Was he sure that Fours—his Enneagram—aren’t the ones who stress people out?

While I consider myself a perfect 10, the Enneagram only goes to Nine. Fortunately, Victor informed me that you also get a bonus of up to two numbers, called Wings, that complement your primary number. Victor encouraged me to retake the test and look more closely at my Wing results. Skimming the dense paragraphs of the results page, I was relieved to spot a Wing 9 (“easy-going”, “creative”, “optimistic”—the ideal partner, I can only assume) and possibly a Wing 5 (“visionary”, “inventive”, “curious”—someone who keeps things interesting in a relationship, I’m sure). At least now I could lean heavily on my Wing 9 to prove that I wasn’t a crazy control-freak robot with no emotion. I hoped that these Wings would be strong enough to fly my Primary One far away and out of sight.

I took the test several times, in fact, and each time part of me identified as a One, the rest of me shaking my head in dismissal. Could I perhaps be 10% One, 20% Nine, 15% concentrated power of will?

My friend Liz’s roommate is similarly obsessed with the Enneagram. She tried for weeks to get Liz to take the test, and when she did, Liz suffered from the same anticlimacticism: none really spoke to her. Her roommate said to their third roommate, “Liz found out her Enneagram, and then she just…stopped.” It was as if the Enneagram was an exciting journey Liz was so lucky to be on. As if Liz was Christopher Columbus, except she stumbled upon North America and just nodded, “Yup. Good stuff,” turned the ship around, and returned to Italy instead of wreaking havoc on the indigenous people. (Except I’m Christopher Columbus, the self-righteous control-freak best known for my success at the expense of trauma to those around me. Thanks, Enneagram. I love me.)

Victor was also quick to point out that Ones and Fours are not compatible. At this point, I was too ashamed to emphasize my ISFJ label to replace this fractured picture of my identity, because every Meyers-Briggs “What Character Are You?” infographic reveals my true nature as the Punching Bag or Overbearing Wet Blanket. I’m talking Toby Flenderson (The Office), Jerry Gergich (Parks and Recreation), C-3PO, Samwise Gamgee, Neville Longbottom. These namesakes couldn’t dig me out of my unbecoming Enneagram, no matter how hot Neville grew up to be.

And then, after our third date, Victor sent me a text: “My dad is a One.” This simple sentence was not just another statement of fact from his Internet reading; it carried a judgment. Right when I thought this conversation was in the past, that he might accept me for who I am—the ugly, shameful One that two tests could not deny—this blunt comparison to his father was truly damning. I had learned enough about his family life to know that “My dad is a One” carried the implication of “My dad is the worst, our relationship strained, and now a lifetime of disappointment all makes sense. You’re both Ones, and I could never date my dad. Gross.”

He followed his report with, “I did some more research, and being a One just sounds so stressful.” (Again, I started in on my defence for why I really didn’t think I was wholly a One. He didn’t seem convinced.)

The next day he texted me that he “wasn’t feeling it.” Actually, it was a full three paragraphs over-explaining and meta-telling me all the ways he would have felt bad breaking it off, how he wanted to ghost me but would have felt just horrible doing that after three dates.

“I’m not feeling it” would have been merciful. Classic Four behavior.

What did he think I would be like as a romantic partner, anyway? The majority of “Celebrities Who Are Enneagram Ones” lists included old British ladies and politicians. He would be so blessed to date a Ruth Bader Ginsberg or a Julie Andrews. Did he picture me as Hermione Granger (included in one such list), forever correcting his pronunciation: “It’s levi-Oh-sah, not levioSAW.”

Victor spent more time studying what the Enneagram said about One/Four compatibility (and trust me, the outlook on that coupling is bleak, but then again, Ones should avoid all relationships of all kinds until they become self-aware, begin to feel love and pain, and ultimately integrate into society like actual humans) than he did actually trying to get to know me. But maybe we just flat out didn’t have chemistry. After all, it was a bold One move of me to proclaim on our second date that I didn’t feel I really needed a romantic partner (but that if I found someone, then great). That was too much for a sensitive Four to hear.

Labels help us understand each other and can give us a starting sense of expectation in a relationship. For example, most of us would never pursue a relationship with someone who told us on the first date, “I’m a huge fan of Nickelback” or “I’m a proud member of the Juggalo community.” Or if a romantic interest admitted over coffee, “I identify as an actual narcissist.”

But the Enneagram won’t tell you if a prospective partner will get your jokes, or chew with their mouth open, or want to have kids. From my experience, the Enneagram probably won’t even help you with emotional intelligence or self-growth. If anything, the only part of me that reveals my One true nature is the self-doubt inside of me that makes me think, “Well, damn, am I actually like that? Am I that controlling and inflexible?” And I realized the answer is: only when I’m hungry. At least that’s the Taurus in me.