When they say, "You do the math," there are actually people who do. They fly into a flurry of nervous numbers, clack at the calculator and end up
with a row of dreary digits. Then they forget what the subject was about. That's rather like not seeing the forest for the trees.
Sure, I think the numbers are important. But I always wait for that enterprising geek to do them. They just don't interest me. I remember
barely squeaking through college math with a photo finish. Even the instructor had that look about her that said this poor disadvantaged soul would
probably never keep a basic checking account straight, let alone comprehend larger numbers like billions with a "b" or trillions with a nervous tic. How many
zeroes in a trillion again? Since I'm still a 20-aire, I don't need to count any higher, anyway.
It's because I am a severely afflicted right-brained person. That means that my brain is shaped like a coat hanger that bends all thoughts into
creative sausage. The outcome is a storm of useless images that never focus on anything except when to waste time next. Exactness in life is out, so you do
the math.
Sometimes, I have even been at war with those left-brained square heads that count things all the time. My ex-husband used to count the ways that
I didn't love him. He would keep an exact tally of all my priorities in life that excluded him and the house. I had six friends with nothing to do but
socialize, seven days a week that I was elsewhere and eight days a week that I didn't cook.
Then he would count the things that had to be done around the house. By the time he got to about the fifth item, it was a domestic assignment list
for me that included cleaning a microscopic area under the refrigerator.
His mother used to count the times that I glared at her the day before when she nosed around my house dust. I appreciate house cleaning and all
these counted items, also, but don't need to be on a mathematical list to get there.
I have been at odds with all those counting left-brainers ever since. They nit pick with too much magnifying precision. They garden in
geometrically perfect rows, count beans somewhere else in the work place and can give you an exact number of rules that you're supposed to follow before you even
start the day.
As a total right-brainer, I wave off all those details, lean against the wall and say, "whatever." I've always waved a very inexact wand with
"about," "circa" and "ish."
My son-in-law's head is perfectly square-shaped that contains nothing but a tornado of numbers swirling around. When there's no calculator
available he performs virtuoso air-arithmetic. Then my daughter corrects him for ridiculous behavior, especially when normal people are around. So, with his
hands tied, his eyes jut back and forth until he vibrates himself into full tilt of farm prices.
I've been to restaurants with left brains who wait with nervous glee for the bill to arrive. Then that end of the table turns into a small accounting
firm to tally up exactly to the half cent what each person tips. It would be so much more efficient, in my mind, to eliminate time spent on dumb stuff in life
to just stack some one dollar bills until someone says tells you to stop. If you worry about that extra half cent, don't go out to eat.
