You hyperventilate at the sight of an old cemetery.

Your correspondence begins: Dear_____________, You don't know me but...

Town clerks lock the doors when they see you coming.

You're more interested in what happened in 1697 than 1997.

You think every home should have a microfilm reader.

You're of the firm opinion that 100 years from now, no one will ever
know that you didn't keep up with the laundry and bills.

You've traced every one of your ancestral lines back to Adam and Eve,
have it fully documented, and still don't want to quit.

People start leaving the room as soon as you say "My great-great......."

The first place you look in a book is the INDEX.

You take a break long enough to go to the doctor, then you tell them you
were born in 1843.

You hide the phone bill from your spouse.

You continually complain that you have a need for names, dates and
places.

You get locked in a library overnight and you never even notice.

You've become the single source of income for the Mormons.

You have no taste for work of any kind, except feverishly looking
through records at libraries and courthouses.

You feel like an egg, looking for the chicken that laid you.

You have a blank expression, sometimes deaf to spouse and children.

You have a strange, faraway look in your eyes when your children enter
the computer room.

You can pinpoint Harrietsham, Hawkhurst and Kent on a map of England,
but can't locate Topeka, Kansas.

You can't vacation in Yellowstone because you don't have ancestors
there.

You're actually happy to find out that you have the same great
grandfather on BOTH sides.  The genetics may be bad, but it sure
simplifies research.

Your spouse wishes he/she had been born in the 1800s - that way you'd
know he/she was alive.

Your eyes widen, the vein's in your temple's bulge and the hair on the
back of your neck stands out when ask to let someone else use the
computer.