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 |    My random thoughts and reactions to my everyday life. The voices like a forum. |
| I do not know quite what happened or when , but my hubby and I now qualify for seniors' discounts at some venues. This creates a quandary; in order to save money, but not face, we have to admit to our age. HMMMM..... We definitely do not consider ourselves to be old. In this day and age ,when people as a whole are living longer and healthier lives why are 'young seniors', those in their fifties, like moi, considered 'old'?? It's so true that age is just a perception! "Maturity" is very objective/subjective, and I object! Whew, a few years have skittered by since I composed this biography block. Those "fifties" are in the rear view mirror and they are distant, fond memories. Oh, I do not plan to stop writing any time soon. |
| Talk Tuesday! What was your least favorite subject in school? Tell us about a teacher who made that subject even less fun for you. There was only one subject that did not agree with me when I attended school. I chose a variety of subjects to study in high school. I enjoyed learning three other languages, auto shop class, various English courses, math, science, and history. Each year, despite my mother's objections and my natural propensity for klutziness, I insisted upon signing up for Physical Education, or P.E. This was my fun class, my lark class. I harboured no illusions of becoming an athlete. If you assume this was my problem course, you'd be mistaken. Once, just once, to my eternal regret, I listened to my Mom's advice, and I enrolled in a typing class. This was as computers were appearing, and my particular educational edifice had not yet invested in them. I did not have access to one at home yet either. This typing occurred on an electric typewriter. Imagine! It's not as if I couldn't, or didn't memorize the placement of the keys on that keyboard. That was not an issue. My "handicap" was the size of my hands. They are tiny, kid-sized, with short fingers. My baby fingers did not and do not still reach the top row of keys. When my digits are stretched and splayed out, my littlest finger is totally useless. Of course, most of the typing classes revolved around speed and accuracy exercises. I hated those stupid, inane sentences created to use all the different letters, and punctuation keys. It was so repetitive. My style could technically be referred to as cheating, but I prefer to call it adapting. I have other fingers perfectly willing to take over the duties of their fellow, short "sisters". It's sorta like wrestling. When there is a key to press that should be touched by the weak fingers, the others are tagged in as replacements. This works for me. That typing class also discouraged visiting, talking, socializing, etcetera. It attempted to be all business. Everyday, it was the same sounds; tappitty-tapping, a clacking, a whiz-banging, a zipping, a bell-dinging... After a speed drill, I'd hear a collective releasing of held breath. The timer, of course, buzzed shrilly. I don't recall the teacher/typist's name. I suppose I am suppressing terrible memories. She made it her habit to parade up and down the aisles between our desks. She seemed to delight in the blitzkrieg attack. No one knew when she might suddenly snatch a page from a typewriter. I am grateful that she never resorted to swatting errant fingers. Sigh, I did survive, didn't I? |
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Happy June! May was so fun!
