This morning I woke up face-to-face with the biggest tragedy of my life. I don't like to think about it because it hurts so darn much. My tragedy? I am horrible at math. That's right. The only joy in this life that truly eludes me is mathematics. I suck at math. Really. Like a mental block, not enough IQ points, sexist, it's-not-my-fault-yes-it-is-its-your-life-why-dont-you-study condition.
I've got it bad.
What happened this morning started with a dream. I was dreaming I was in love with a fabulous, tall, hunky, muscular, Australian man (he didn't look unlike the photo of the Marlboro man I posted yesterday.) and he was in love with me. Heaven! He made me laugh and adored everything about me. Yes, it was a dream but I'd dream about him again for free.
Are you from Down Under? You are SO nice. Do you know Colin Hay? I love you.
The next thing I know Maria is dropping me off at my childhood home, which is abandoned in my dream, before we head to a wedding. Who's wedding? I have no idea. You know, some "wedding" in a dream. That's not important. Focus, people. Where am I now? My childhood home.
(Work with me here. There is a point but you have to be patient.)
As I stood in the derelict remains (which it isn't, other suburbanites live there) of my childhood basement bedroom (which it wasn't, it was a sunny first floor bedroom festooned with the requisite pink flowers and avocado shag carpeting) I realized with a broken heart that it had, indeed, been 38 years since I'd set foot in the place.
In my dream, I started to cry.
This was the last place that we lived together as a family before my parents divorce! (It wasn't) The last place I saw my grandmother alive. This was the epicenter of my childhood. The nexus. The heart, if you will. This place was the ground zero of everything I had to feel sorry for myself about in the whole wide world!
I started to wail.
Poor, poor pitiful me.
I ran to Maria and my hunky new Australian boyfriend (who by the way, looked so adorable in his muscles while he listened to me sob over my lost, lost childhood. Poor, poor, poor me!) and I told them everything. I detailed the many joys, the unfortunate wallpapers and mostly, how badly my own feelings had been devastated by my parents impertinence. (They really are impertinent!)
"Thirty-eight years!" I wailed. "Thirty-EIGHT years."
In my dream I dropped to my knees.
"thirty. eight. years." I whispered in agony between sobs.
The anguish of the years gone by, wasted. Gone! It was all gone!
My new boyfriend looked at me skeptically.
"What year did you say you were born?" He asked.
I told him.
"How old were you when you left this home?" he queried, eyebrows arching.
"Eleven" I whimpered.
"How old are you now?" he continued.
Uh oh. I've boxed myself into a corner. Not again!
I realized the error of my ways. The math didn't add up. Not even close.
"Wait, that doesn't add up, does it?" I giggled. Maria looked annoyed. I pretended to fidget with the leather chap on his knee and said, "Um, hmmm. Maybe it wasn't 38 years ago." I looked into his beautiful eyes and tried, really I did, to think of ANY number that might be close but it was too late. As much as I longed to graze his chiseled jaw line with my fingers one more time I knew it wasn't going to happen.
The magic love-spell that can only happen in a dream between a math illiterate and a cowboy was broken.
The next thing I know I'm cleaning a litter box with Maria and heading out the unknown wedding. Obviously not MY wedding. Who, in their right mind, would cry, pout and argue with a handsome man that was her's for the taking? Did I engage in witty small talk? No. Did I suggest a moonlit walk? No. Good god, woman! Even in your dreams, you are a total nerd.
I woke up right then because the printer came to life for no reason (it has a ghost, not a self cleaning function).
My printer ghost. I caught him! Ha! Take that NASA Mathletes! Printers ghosts do exist!
I stretched and as I looked for the comfort of the easy-to-read "digital" clock my parents got me in 7th grade when they realized I still couldn't tell time on a standard clock...
This is my "digital" alarm clock and I can read it, uhm-kay?
...I was reminded once again why it is that I will never, ever get to work as an admin at my dream job...NASA.
Is this a Roomba?
I am a math moron. This sad fact has kept my true great loves, science and cowboys, at arms length for, well, MORE than 38 years.
Mama does love her some science but after considering all the other factors, she knows it just doesn't add up for her to work with those dreamy, bespectacled math wizards with their robots and their telescopes and flying saucers and other stuff-I-am-not-allowed-to-touch.
Oh Grish! I think you're delish! Have you ever considered wearing leather chaps?
Over and out, Muchachos.
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