I have learned that in algebra I don’t always (ever?) have to know “why,” I just have to do it. There isn’t a reason or a “how come” for most of it, or at least one that I will comprehend. “Here’s the rule/formula, use it.” That’s my math mantra.
Then, I do find out the “why” on something mathematical and it is like…Whoa! Light bulb! I even exclaimed (in my outside voice, in front of the whole class) when the instructor had gotten done explaining something: “Cool!” I don’t think I have ever used the word “cool” to describe a mathematical concept. But it was. And there was true wonder in my voice, like the first time I saw the stars outside of a city, a deep, soul-stirring wonder. The world does make sense! We all have moments like those, though probably not over the quadratic formula.
Ad shook his head when I got home that night. I couldn’t wait to tell him, literally bounced down the stairs: “Oh my god, listen, listen! Did you know there is a reason for the quadratic formula? I mean, that it makes sense? That it comes from something else, it’s not just some arbitrary formula?”
“The world is such a magical place for you,” he said. “Sometimes I want to come live there with you.” And it is. When math makes sense, damn, my world is magic.
I’ve been running with the GirlChild the last few days. This has been quite an adjustment. First, I don’t particularly like running with others. I run for the space it gives me, space to breathe, to think, to be in my own head. I also don’t compete with anyone but myself, and while there is no competition between my daughter and I, I still feel this need to either a) keep up (she has LONG legs and a longer stride, tho she runs in shorter duration); or b) encourage her to keep going, when she really needs to find her own pace; or c) slow down and walk with her when she does, even though I am not ready to walk yet. This is the thing though: I was never enthusiastic about doing ANYTHING physical at her age; I love it that she is. So I definitely want to encourage her. I told her we’d run together 2 or 3 times a week, the rest I need to run on my own, if I am actually going to run seriously and train for the half-marathon. And as soon as she gets to where she can keep up, we can run together more often. She seemed cool with that.
Getting ready to head to WI with W. I have another 1.5 hours here, then 3 hrs before I have a wax appointment with the cute young wax girl. My other lady knew all about my lifestyle, this one doesn’t. I kind of liked yakking with Julie about stuff. I’d like to put my earbuds in and veg to music while the new girl does her thing. I will say, though, she is thorough. Gets down in all the nooks and crannies with tweezers.
I’m a little nervous about the trip. I don’t know any of the others that will be there, and W’s never brought his own girl along to these excursions, so it’s kind of new territory for us both. But I have utmost confidence in his ability to negotiate possibly tricky waters, and to keep me on an even keel in an unfamiliar situation.
I love the idea of traveling with him though. We’ve never traveled together. Relationship advice always talks about what a “test” traveling together can be to a relationship, so I guess this is ours. But I am a pretty easy-going traveler, and have never had a bad travel experience with any of my lovers/husbands, etc. But then that may be more of that magical place I live in: I don’t get pissy or irritated on vacation, ever. Why should I? I’m on vacation, fer crissakes! Even when the travel company booked me incorrectly on my trip to St. John’s, leaving me stranded in the Puerto Rico airport overnight with no luggage & no hotel, it was only a minor bump in the road. I got to talking in my broken, high school Spanish with the janitor, who, without me even hinting that I needed it (I was prepared to sleep in a chair right there in the airport) eventually put me in a cab to a hotel for the night where his wife worked. When I told him I had no money (I was traveling on a shoestring) he insisted that his wife would comp the room. And she did. And the hotel turned out not to be a Motel 6, which I would have been fine with, but the Ritz-Carlton San Juan. Afterward, when I told people this story, they were aghast that I had trusted this stranger (and in fact my traveling companions were pretty upset that I hadn’t called them–but they were already in St. John, what could they have done?) I knew it was okay, though. Sometimes, you just get a feeling.
So, nervous or not, I know I’ll have a fine time. I always do.