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I have always been absolutely terrible at math. OK, maybe not when I was seven or something, and numbers were a puzzle. People are always saying that. “It’s like a puzzle! It’s fun!” My fiancé thinks like this. He sometimes solves math problems for fun. That’s a little like…walking on spikes for fun. Giving yourself paper cuts for fun. Alphabetizing all of your books for fun. Scrubbing the bathroom floor for fun. Other terrible, painful, horrifyingly boring and tedious things for fun. You get the idea.

Maybe there was a time when I added two numbers and got another number and my little face lit up and I burbled, “It’s like magic!” But I learned very quickly that it was most certainly NOT like magic. Magic had more to do with fairy dolls and stories about bold, fearless princesses who ran away into the enchanted forest, and colorful silk scarves. Math was more about suffering. I wrote a lot of poems about how much I hated math, and the monumental unfairness of the world’s tendency to evaluate me based on skills I found no reason to value in the slightest bit.

But the world always wears you down. That’s just its way. And all of the messages it repeats over and over in your ear seep through to your brain, eventually, if not immediately. So I learned that I was a little stupid, for being bad at math. That the smart people were always good at it. Always.

I was artistic. And creative. And those things were definitely great. But there was always something missing.

I went to college, I went to grad school. I proved myself over and over again academically. But the sense that there was a hollowness to my intellect didn’t ever quite disappear. Living in Manhattan has taught me why.

This is the reason: I am not the modern woman.

In my mind, she’s much more computer-savvy than I am. She’s much more logical. She has mastered all of the traditionally male skills and is comfortable on intellectual turf that men have closely guarded for centuries. She wants a high-powered job. She gets one. She thrives in the competitive environment. She looks hot in a trim business suit. Her legs are definitely long. She is deft and sharp and cool and no-nonsense. I can describe her so well, I feel like I’ve been stalking her. And maybe I have. Maybe I’ve been stalking the idea of the kind of woman I would be if I was better at the world.

I feel like I’m an old-fashioned type of woman. I write music, I paint. I cook. I don’t know nearly enough about managing money. I forget things easily. I’m emotional. I put on pink dresses and pearls and high heels to vacuum. Ok, not that last one. But it’s pretty severe.

I recognize that womanhood can’t really be divided into the categories of “modern woman” and “old-fashioned woman,” and that people are infinitely complex (I mean, come on, Penelope Trunk is needlepointing. I don’t think we need more evidence than that). Women can and should be whatever it is that they feel inclined to be, without anyone telling them that they aren’t a “good enough woman.”

But I can’t help but feel embarrassed sometimes that the skills I have come together to form a woman who neglects to break down so many old stereotypes.

Little did I know, as a kid playing with fairy dolls in the grass (which looks like an enchanted forest when the dolls are really tiny…), that getting good at math would help make me a more streamlined, complete, successful, and interesting woman one day.

So here I am. Thoroughly un-streamlined. A pretty good songwriter. Awesome at making sandwiches. I mean, seriously awesome. Romantic. Caring. With no desire for a high-powered job. And still stalking some chick in a designer business suit.

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Un-roast: Today I love my fingernails. They’re exactly the right shape and size for my fingers. Well done, hands. Well done.

Everyone: How are you at math/science? Is it a part of your identity as a woman?