I Fail At Math...

The other day at work I had to spend a few hours in Photoshop fixing a stupid mistake I made.  I had managed to size at least five dozen images incorrectly because I am completely and utterly abysmal at math.  I use a calculator for everything, and in the absence of a calculator I count on my fingers.  My kids have learned to avoid me like the plague when it comes to math homework, lest we both wind up in a fit of tears wailing “Oh god I don’t understand this!!”  My only consolation is I can have a beer after these episodes and remember that I’m good at lots of other things and that my husband does our taxes so I don’t have to worry so much about the math.  My kids have no such consolation so they just go straight to their father and save us all the frustration and heartache.

Definitely how I remember it.

I didn’t used to be like this.  I was actually in the math club in middle school.  I went to math competitions.  I was at peace with math.  The first year of high school passed in similar bliss.  Then came Algebra II. I was optimistic.  My teacher was a petite blonde woman that looked a lot like Mrs. Brady.  She seemed so non-threatening.  I knew I was going to do great in her class.  
I have never been more wrong about anything in my life.  
On the first day of class she told us she wasn’t a teacher - she was a facilitator.  Basically, this meant that she would write our assignment down on the board, sit down at her desk, slip her shoes off, and read a book for the rest of the period.  After the first two weeks of class I was thoroughly lost, so I tried asking a question.
“It’s in the book” - that was always the answer to the questions I asked.  “It’s in the book.”  The book was a nightmare.  I’m really not exaggerating this part.  My nuclear physicist uncle, who was a veritable wizard at math, looked at it and declared that at least 80% of the examples were wrong.  Yet I trudged along until I became convinced that the book wasn’t satisfactory.  I needed an explanation.  So I politely asked for one.  I was rebuffed.  I pointed out that the book was wrong.  I was greeted with shock and indignation that the Holy Textbook of Algebra Things could possibly be wrong.  I persisted.

Sort of how I remember it.  Minus the gun.

I swear my teacher grew claws and fangs at this point...at least that’s how it stands in my memory.  In one brief moment she  went from being the sweet albeit completely incompetent Mrs. Brady clone, to being the MTFH (Math Teacher from Hell).  She whipped around and yelled, “BECAUSE THAT’S HOW IT’S DONE!”  The entire class went silent.  “MY GOD.  MY RETARDED SON IS SMARTER THAN YOU!”
I was completely stunned.  I didn’t even know what to say.  I felt sorry for myself.  I felt even sorrier for her son.  I decided to plug along through the year and get it over with.  I got my first C on a report card in my life.  I was mortified...I had fallen from my pinnacle of geekiness.  I came to dread going to school and was seriously considering perpetually ditching math class, but my inner goody-two-shoes held me back.  
My only saving grace in Algebra II was our final project which counted for a huge percentage of our grade.  I teamed up with two classmates and we put together a stunning, really freaking amazing stop motion animation film teaching the concept of advanced square roots.  It consumed most of my nights for almost two months.  In what I felt was a bit of poetic irony, we had to put the clay figure representing our teacher on a plastic donkey that we had on hand for some reason.  It was really because we’d made the model too top heavy to stand but I felt like it was in some way my own biting social commentary on my teacher’s perpetual jackassery.  We got an A on the project, which I freely admit was the only reason I managed to pass the course.  But I had done it.  I was done.  I would never have to see the MTFH again.
And that summer I discovered by some horrible, cruel, sick twist of fate my Algebra II teacher had started teaching Trig and Analysis and I would be stuck with her the next year as well.  This is consequently why I know absolutely nothing about Trig and Analysis.  All I remember from that class was realizing at the get-go that there was no point even trying.  I remember playing some spectacular games of spades and spending lots of time wondering when my slacker best friend was going to stagger in.  I think I passed thanks to the help of more astute friends who were bad at keeping their papers covered during tests.
These cataclysmic events are probably why I went to my first real math class in college and immediately asked our TA if he knew where I could find a good tutor.  He said, “But you haven’t even tried it yet.”
I said, “No, trust me.  This is going to require a tutor.  Or maybe two.  Possibly an army.”
This is also part of the reason, apart from being told by my professor that Computer Science wasn’t a good field for women, that I majored in English.  English was a much better fit for me.  The only math I had to do was figuring out how many Red Bulls I needed to buy while I read “Their Eyes Were Watching God” for the seventh time.