We’ve heard, of course, both predictions: Mellowed by age, vs. The same, only more so. But what does happen to our personality as we get older, accumulate more experience and knowledge, burn our fingers on the matches of life?
Personally, I tend to believe that even as we grow and patience and tolerance levels allow us (as well as others) greater freedom, and even though we can learn to overcome tendencies and flaws, there is something within us that clings to who we are and when challenged, rises up in protective shields around us.
For example, my own personal quirk about not following directions, but rather seeking to unlock the doors myself. This often leads to different conclusions or deadends while taking twice the time to get there. This is fine, of course; it’s part of the whole and the method by which lessons learned are then retained and implemented for certain individuals. The kink in the theory, however, is that while my own strange way of looking at the world may be fine in fiction or philosophy, it doesn’t near find a success rate in the mathematics field of study.
Okay, simply put, my version of what a poem or painting may be saying is well allowed (encouraged, even) within the norms. But when faced with statistical facts, why am I still the only one who draws an opposite conclusion?
And the frightening realization with this information dawns: I’m only getting weirder as I harden.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
When I was taking college classes in my thirties, it was always Algebra and Calculus that wounded me. I simply couldn’t force my brain to want to care about something I saw as dry and empty. Never mind that it was the mountain that couldn’t be climbed; it was also the only thing I was ever sure I couldn’t conquer. I know that wasn’t the healthiest of attitudes towards the subject, but it seemed the most realistic.
Well, it wound up being partly true, and partly false. Life intervened, and we had a new student that was deaf, and the professor was asking for volunteers to tutor her. Whoever volunteered for this position would get one free pass (an A) on one exam of their choosing. Of course, they would also have the indomitable task of producing copius notes that were precise and beyond thorough; the notes were required to be a map with no dead-ends in sight. Two guesses who volunteered. It wouldn’t be the first time I volunteered to help someone for reasons other than the purely altruistic, although in the end it was beneficial to both parties, as is usually the case.
Well, I’d love to tell you the powdery soft ending where I aced all the exams and never cashed in on that free A, but I’m sorry to say it never happened that way. I struggled through, and mostly stumbled. The girl I was tutoring passed admirably, and we went on to team up in some other classes as well. Maybe I didn’t get so good at Algebra, but I did learn some sign language, and became adept at explaining algebra with a mixture of notes and hand gestures. Try explaining why X minus the sum of A and B, divided by C, should equal Y squared, without the benefit of traditional language. So, in the end, I didn’t learn Algebra after all (in fact, I had to take it twice to get a passing grade, and then took it a third time because I was obsessed with getting an A). But I did learn something valuable about communicating. So maybe that was the lesson to be learned all along.
I have no leg to stand on as far as urging you forward, since I was too petrified to ever take Algebra II. I’ve often joked that Algebra II stood between me and my degree, only it’s one of those jokes where no one is laughing. But I did learn some great cuss words in sign language.
About that “getting weirder as you harden” comment — even though I think you’re beating yourself up a bit much here, I have to appreciate the poetry of that image. I’m not encouraging you to believe it’s true, I’m just saying I like the way you structured the image.
Too bad the statistics don’t want to be pliable in your brain in the way that words want to invite you to rearrange them. Is there such a thing as poetry of motion in statistics? If there is, I guess I’ve missed the nuances of the language myself.
I wish you weren’t struggling with this, but I still have to admire that you’ve even stepped into the ring at all. Hope you aren’t down for the count of eight, but only resting on the sidelines til the fog clears from your eyes.
Of course, this is coming from someone who was too terrified to do what you’re already doing.