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I suck at math. For that I like to blame Mrs. Franklin, my 8th grade Algebra teacher who got pregnant one month into the school year. I had second period math and that was when her morning sickness hit. Every day, like clockwork, she bolted for the ladies at 9:05, give or take a few.
In truth, the math suckiness ran far deeper, deep into the very core of my being, where nothing added up and very little made sense. That, or it could at least be traced back to the playroom. The abacus. I never understood it. I still donít. There is nothing the least bit simple about that little washboard. It makes a nice ornament. Pick-up sticks were all right. I liked my Tinker-Toys.
By the time I hit high school, Mr. Wood had his work cut out for him. I failed Algebra 2 twice. That landed me in Statistics and Functions senior year. I was not fit for any of the trig/precal/calculus permutations. I do not know what calculus is.
I can not recall the name of my seatmate, or the length of 5th period Stat-funk. I have no idea what we charted and graphed. I do remember peanut butter sandwiches, shared pots of Carmex, bathroom trips in twos, a hardboiled egg in a Ziplock bag stuck to the message board with my name on it, the mad dash to chapel, tears shed on the fieldhockey field, the shortest dress Iíve ever owned.
Date Written: April 12, 2005
Average Vote: 3.5