Hobbes? Which Hobbes?

Mid-semester is a really good time to start facing down the facts. For one, I am not an intellectual. If some attractive man at a party starts a sentence by quoting Hobbes, there is a faint hope in my heart that he is talking about Calvin's tigerish friend, rather than the terribly serious philosopher. Usually, though, the extremely cute man is about to launch into a discussion of his personal political philosophy, based on a well-memorized paragraph that Hobbes published a long time ago in a very highly regarded (and rarely read) book. And while the charming gentleman may intend the discussion to be a vibrant exchange on political economy, he quickly finds himself in the depths of a monologue, while I mentally check my schedule for time to do the laundry.

I have further proof of my ranking just slightly below the top drawer of intellectual attainment: we had our first exam in Math and Modern Culture this week. My hard-working instructor says my test paper had "a few hiccups." I suspect charitable intentions on her part.

The problem with mathematics is that I started out my arithmetical career by trying to invest numbers with personality. For example, 7s were elegant, princely, and colored green, for some reason. Threes were cozy, gold, and a good number for pieces of candy from Aunt Martha's candy dish. Twos were red and romantic, like valentines, and 4s were spiky but prone to Victorian elaboration.

No wonder I find algebra somewhere between a challenge and a mystery. It almost makes me grateful for my Ethics class.