The only thing that can possibly explain my little "quirks" is that I have all the parts of a brain, but it's fragmented and the pieces float around independently of each other. I blame the "Incident Wherein Teresa Tied Herself to a Horse and was Dragged a Quarter Mile" of 1974 for this because I'm pretty sure I hit my head once or twice.
So, these fragments send out little signals to each other, but sometimes the signals get lost in grey matter, or they end up in the wrong place. Sort of like when you are in the grocery store and you tell your husband to hand you a package of paper towels and you look up and it is not your husband but some frazzled mother of 10, a good foot shorter than your husband. The signals are correct, the intent is correct, but the recipient ducked off to read some magazines a couple of aisles over.
I can't remember numbers. Weird, because I love math and have always been pretty good at it... ON PAPER. Ask me to mentally calculate anything and all you'll get is two eyes shaped exactly like zeroes. History has always been my downfall because I can't remember years at all. Seriously. I freakin' WENT to Cambodia, I STEPPED FOOT in the Killing Fields, I READ NUMEROUS ACCOUNTS and history books and spoke to survivors of Pol Pot's regime... but I can't remember if that all started in 70 and ended in 75 or? Wait, what? Even while I was there, and I committed it to my memory, "this happened when I was x years old," I STILL can't remember.
And, if I look at a watch to see what time it is, I instantly forget.
Sometimes I associate colors with numbers. Not for any particular reason. I just think "blue" instead of "6".
Plus, I'm afraid of elephants. And I'm afraid of spontaneously exploding. Suicide-bombing has never been a career path option for me. I don't need an aptitude test to tell me that.
So, here's to a happy 20yellow-orange.
Well, I don't substitute colors for numbers, but I do have a tendency to nag at other people's children in the grocery store for touching too many things or...even worse...I thought I was telling my daughter that she was in my "personal space" zone and found that it was some guy I'd never seen before who just wasn't paying attention as he was perusing the canned soup aisle. I could be construed as a really mean grocery shopper, I suppose.
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