You can count on my dislike of numbers

I have a love-hate relationship with numbers.

In general, we absolutely, positively do not get along. Numbers are devious little buggers whose sole purpose in life is to mess me up. There is a reason I’ve always been bad at math and I place the blame entirely on numbers.

My inability to play nice with numbers resulted in me going through school with a stigma of stupidity. It wasn’t until just a few years ago that I self-diagnosed myself as having a condition known as dyscalculia. It’s basically like having dyslexia with numbers. Once I discovered that my problem was a real thing and not just me being slow or stupid, I was able to let some of my anxiety about numbers go. That doesn’t, however, stop me from freezing up when I have to do math under pressure.

So, if I have such a dislike for numbers, where does the love come in? Some numbers bring with them very positive memories and emotions. For example, the number 161 is important to me. It was the number of my Cub Scout Pack, Boy Scout Troop, and Explorer Post. Whenever I see 161, I’m flooded with fond memories and I swell with pride.

The same goes for the number 50. That was my number when I played football at Niwot High School. I kept it for four years of intramural flag football in college. And when it comes to football, I have a lot of pride in the number 7, which was worn by my favorite NFL player, John Elway.

Other numbers spur good feelings, especially those associated with birthdays and anniversaries. But that’s where it ends. The rest of the numbers can go take a long walk off a short pier. And math can follow. Better yet, let’s make it a foot race. When you start doing math that involves shapes that are neither numbers nor letters, you just as well be speaking a foreign language underwater with a mouthful of peanut butter.

My wife and youngest son are just the opposite. They speak fluent math and the concepts come easy to them. One of my regular routines on election nights is to get my wife on the phone and have her help me figure out percentages. I’ve always hated election night coverage because it involves an awful lot of nasty little numbers. There is the need to type them correctly (sorry, autocorrect won’t help), figure out percents, while also trying to contact candidates, write a story, post results online and on social media, all under deadline pressure.

A few weeks ago I was taking an assessment and I was asked to count backwards from 100 by sevens. I had enough fingers to figure out the first one was 93. After that, I was screwed. I tried to do it in my head. I knew the number would be somewhere in the mid-80s. And I liked the ’80s. I went through high school and college in the ’80s. The music was way cooler than it is today (ironically one of my favorite songs is “8675-309”) and the movies were great. Oh, and the big hair – that was awesome!

So while my mind was going there, the number 86 might as well been gargling peanut butter underwater somewhere on a distant planet. And the only reason I can tell you that the number is 86 is because I used my fingers – twice – just to be sure.

If you’re wondering why I couldn’t recall that information from multiplication tables (or times tables as we called it), it’s because I never learned them. I did fine with the ones, most of the twos, and all of the fives and 10s. Beyond that, I just could not memorize them no matter how hard I tried.

I know I’m making light of my relationship with numbers, but it is a serious problem. I was a disaster at paying bills, figuring out taxes, and balancing my checkbook. That’s why my math-minded wife handles those things. I easily transpose numbers, forget to carry the one to the next column, misplace commas, and things like that. Those are all symptoms of dyscalculia. I know that now.

One of the times I had fun with numbers was in the late ’70s/early ’80s when the movie “10” came out starring Dudley Moore and Bo Derek. That started the fad of rating women on a scale of one to 10, which was a riot for me and my fellow teenage buddies. I don’t think the girls liked it so much, but they played along with it – at least the ones eight and up.

Now that I’m well into my 50s I’ve discovered a new set of problems with numbers. If I’m not wearing my glasses, a lot of them look alike, especially 3, 6, and 8. Another number that scares me is the one my bathroom scale spits out at me each morning. I’ve been fortunate in that it is generally getting smaller, but it will climb rapidly if I’m not careful. Come to think of it, my age has been climbing, too. I tell you, those numbers have it out for me.

Of course, all of this talk about numbers is tiring me out. You can bet I won’t go to bed counting sheep. But I will be dreaming about the 10 lying next to me!