The truth is that I can barely add and subtract.
Talk to me about fractions or blah blah equals blah and I will start to cry.
But after all these years of living in a world with lots of people who can add and subtract in their heads, I have developed my own survival system. I can get by fairly well in a world where numbers rule. But I sure can’t ever be in the winner’s circle, that’s for sure.
No one will ever ask me to tutor their child in calculus or algebra. Lord knows I will never be asked to appear on a cooking show, either.
However, I can spell you under the table.
That’s how God does things, you know. If you’re like me, you know a long list of your weaknesses. But everybody has at least one special something they can do better than anyone else.
So OK, I can’t balance a checkbook. But I’ve got an imagination that will never shut the hell up.
Anyway, earlier today I walked into a well-known fabric store.
With a table cover I wanted to retire, I was on a mission to fall in love with new colors. The trip was important to me since I use the table cover at my book signings.
Since my book about my bout with breast cancer will be ready later this month, I wanted a new something for my signings.
I wanted a pretty and feminine fabric for the table, where that book – the hardest thing I have ever written in my life – would hopefully be happy.
So I strolled up and down the aisles, pretending I had at least a little bit of experience with fabric. Finally, I picked out a couple of cool possibilities.
Proudly, I approached the counter where those ladies measure stuff like it’s on fire. They are talented and no-nonsense types, flipping material and cutting it like they are competing against each other.
Well, I immediately felt intimidated.
“How many yards do you want?” the clerk asked as she examined one of my choices.
“Yards?” I muttered.
Good grief. I had no idea. I can’t even measure feet. Don’t expect me to get all fancy with yards.
I handed her the table cover I want to retire.
“I would like it to be at least this much,” I said timidly.
“OK,” she nodded.
“But more,” I squeaked.
She looked at me with murder in the irises of her hazel eyes. “How much more?” she snapped. “Do you want three yards and thirty-three fourteenths of an inch? Or maybe seventy-six thirds of a yard?”
How do I communicate with the math whiz when I don’t speak that language?
“Maybe this much,” I said casually as I karate chopped my left arm. “From my elbow to my wrist. Whatever that much is.”
As she guesstimated the 27 sixty thirds of a yard, between my elbow and my wrist measurements, the professional employee bit her lip to stop herself from snort laughing all over the place.
Since her shift ended after she helped me, I think that math-loving, fabric-cutting super woman left work and immediately got at least a little bit intoxicated.