The numbers are coming at me
Anyone who knows me can tell you that I have Arithmophobia, a fear of math. I’m not just bad at it. I am afraid of it. When people say they are afraid of snakes or spiders, I tell them I’m afraid of numerals. Excel spreadsheets give me the heebie jeebies.
I have a recurring nightmare where I’m back in school and I have to stand at the chalkboard, in front of a full classroom, and cipher some algebra problems. Also, I’m in my underwear. Tighty-whities.
Don’t try to picture it.
I can add up a column of numbers and get a different answer seven times – with a calculator, adding machine and/or abacus. If I get the same number more than one time, I go with it. Luckily, I still believe in law of averages.
Years ago, in this very space, I mentioned that I once helped my nephew with his math homework. Basically, I talked him out of the right answers. He was an A-plus student until I “helped” him. On the positive side, I never had to help him with his math homework again. I wasn’t allowed.
Kids, come to me for English questions. Go to ANYONE else for math help.
If only he’d asked me to write a pithy haiku or Shakespearean sonnet. Iambic pentameter is my jam.
Once, I sat at a desk in the bank and an account manager went over my financial portfolio. He talked about principal, interest, expenses and amortization. He talked about numbers. Lots and lots of numbers. My eyes started to glaze over. I believed I would be in his office talking about numbers the rest of my life. At one point, he went over to pull some information from a file, and I looked at the door. It was about 15 feet away. I wondered if I could have run away, but, unfortunately due to my lack of math skills, I was unable to calculate my escape.
Side note: You do not want to run out of a bank. It’s an easy way for some fidgety Barney Fife to bombard your backside with bullets (alliteration is more of my thing).
But I digress, like I do. At tax time, my accountant wants to explain what he did. I just want him to flag the places for me to sign, write a check and skedaddle.
There is one odd exception to my ineptitude. In the middle of the night, I will get up to use the bathroom. When I get back to the bed, I can look at the clock and suddenly calculate the minutes I have before the alarm goes off. I’m never wrong. I’m a whiz at it. I’m a whiz wiz.
That was a long way to go for such a juvenile joke, but we’re here now. I am not the only one in the world with math anxiety (not that I could calculate the odds), but the best way to get rid of a fear is share it.