You sit at the keyboard of your computer, the same type of keyboard you sat at as a child, although now, it’s not a piano. You know it better than you ever knew the piano; you think in typeset now, and you time yourself in all important events by how many words per minute. These are hard habits to break.
You remember your first walk down the sidewalk to your first and only guitar teacher’s house. He was probably seventy to your eight, your guitar case bigger than you. You lugged that thing from your house on America Avenue to his house on America Avenue every Wednesday after school. His main thing was trying to make you better when you were already happy enough the way you were. In later years, you would liken yourself to Tom Petty when your guitar instructor was trying to make you Eddie Van Halen.
Piano lessons and guitar lessons spiraled into a nightmarish spectacle of not knowing how to do anything except to read.
Read, you could do. There were clubs for this, and awards. You squeezed the ability to read into the lacking parts of your brain; you learned to play first-chair trumpet with one hand and your lips, you played the guitar by anchoring a pinky…basically you could do anything one-handed that other people saw as only being able to be accomplished by using more than one hand.
You look at abbreviations now very skeptically. What used to mean something to you doesn’t mean anything to anybody anymore, and what means everything to people now has you asking questions. But questions do not alight liltingly from your tongue into any conversation. You are your father’s daughter. Your eyes always cross and your hair stands on end; your tonsils grab the question back because you should already know.
Yet you have to ask.
On your own best day when you’re liking yourself to the greatest degree, you liken yourself to a student who puts himself in the path of a bus to say, “I don’t get that. I don’t get what you’re talking about.” You start out all snobbish in your answer, then you soften when you realize that it was the bravest of the group who asked the question, and you’re the bus. What does that mean?
You were using html code in 1986 to create files and drawers that somehow were supposed to simulate the same thing in real life. To you, the definitions of these terms were closer to what your parents put money in every week for church and grocery and taxes. There was a test during senior year and it was the only time you ever cheated. Okay, it wasn’t. The mathematical part of your brain kicked in enough for you to get through High School HTML and College Math 100. You got through without a second language, too.
You smirked all the way to the line that divided you from the over-achievers.
Math, never having been your strong suit, is the one thing you have to get better at for the good of mankind. Math is the only thing that saves you in times of trouble when counting counts. Nobody showed you how to play tennis, but you learned it up against the cement wall. Nobody has to show you every equation to prove that a certain something is correct.
You knew how to play cards from the moment your parents needed a third for Merry Widow.