Kate: Math x Me (-skill)=I hate my (e)x.

I think it was Homer (Simpson) who said, "Brain, I don't like you and you don't like me. Let's just work this out so I can get back to killing you with beer." That's how I feel about math. When I try to do more than the simplest of mathematics, the right side of my brain goes on strike. I've always pictured it to be severely atrophied and, if ever get a CAT scan, assume I'll see a normal left brain next to a right side that resembles a chimpanzee playing the accordion. Friends of mine couldn't wait for tenth grade because it meant they could get their driver's license. I couldn't wait because it meant I could opt out of algebra. At the time I considered the fact that you could flat-out quit math half-way through high school as a tacit nod to the fact that no one needed it in the real world. Now I'm equally convinced that a generation of women like myself, wandering around department stores asking complete strangers what they think 30% of $175 comes to, persuaded the school boards of America to reinstate compulsory mathematics through the twelfth grade.

Math and I now exist like two divorced parents, occasionally and begrudgingly meeting to exchange offspring. Like any ex, I'll admit that he's of some use, but he never works out like I'd hoped and he goes out of his way to make things difficult, such as silently mocking me when my checkbook doesn't balance and smirking when I can't calculate the tip on a bill that's not in increments of ten. I was delighted to give math the heave ho and I don't like his implications that I still need him.

And I need him now, the bastard. Because to get through this running thing, I've resorted to, god help me, math.

It's all because I'm a huge baby about running. I do not like it when it's hot. I do not like it when it's not. I do not like it when I'm sweaty, I do not to get all wet(ty). I do not like it in the park, I do not like it in the dark. This means I run a lot on a treadmill at the gym. And for all you "real" runners out there, yes, I know treadmills aren't "real" running. They are so much better! The treadmill let's me know how painfully slow I'm running, then hides it at the touch of a button. It tells me exactly how many seconds I have left to endure and how many minutes I have already triumphed over. It doesn't smirk or mock me and it never takes me so far away from home that I contemplate calling a cab. In short, I Heart Treadmills.

However, treadmills present math problems to me, because I'm also technically impaired. Many is the time I've accidently hit the emergency stop button instead of the pause, causing me to come to a dead halt and my iPod to go skittering across the gym. But the worst part is that I then have to quickly calculate in my head exactly how much time I ran before I screwed up and then reckon in how much longer I'm going to run. Sounds simple, right? For most people. But then I have to factor in my willingness, at this point, to cheat. Consider: was me stopping the treadmill God's way of telling me to go home? Sure I intended to do another 45 minutes, but what about just 20? How many calories had I burned? Enough to negate breakfast? It all turns into one of those complicated word problems that kept me from attending a college without the word "State" after it. If Suzy runs 30 minutes + walks for 10 more (-minus five minutes of screwing around with her earphones) x 3 trips to the bathroom, exactly how many donuts will she be able to eat on the way home?

It's complicated, but in truth, it distracts me from all the running, which, for me, is a wonderful thing. So if you see me muttering while I run, it's not that I'm crazy. I'm just having a fight with my (e)x.