Dirty Secret

Today I failed an Algebra test. I know I failed it. And the thing is, about halfway through the test I started being resentful. After all, I'm not taking the class for credit. Why am I waking up early three mornings a week and stumbling into an Algebra classroom? Why am I taking tests I feel destined to fail? Why am I struggling with something I'll never use?

And here's the awful part. I don't think I should have to be good at math because it's a guy thing. Isn't that a horrible thought? I hated myself when I though that.

When I re-examined my newly-found opinion, though, I decided I want other women to do math. We need more Marie Curies, and more Rosalind Franklins, and more Maria Mitchells.

But I don't want to do math. Some sick part of me wants to decorate the family cave, barefoot.

Yuck.

I want my fantasy man, Phil de Blank, do all the math. He can be geeky and sexy, with different calculators and maybe a slide rule, and I can be all admiring and big-eyed.

Yuck. Again.

I guess, secretly, I want him to take care of me and earn money, and come home after working all day to listen to me talk about how difficult the freaking butcher was today. I can fix him a martini, and he can tell me I'm pretty.

yuck, yuck, yuck, YUCK.

Now I'm determined to make an A on the final, if only to prove to myself that I'm not trying to live out some sick 50s Cinderella fantasy.