An Almost-lost Art

 

Carolyn J. Rose

 

Every month I gather the necessary materials and engage in what I suspect is an almost-lost art. No, I don’t use a handloom or a forge and anvil. I don’t make a fire by rubbing sticks together. I don’t practice map reading or dead reckoning. I don’t dry fruit, vegetables, and meat on a rack in the sun.

 I balance the checkbook.

I know plenty of people who don’t bother. Some round up purchase amounts believing that will provide them with a financial cushion fat enough to mitigate mistakes. Others eyeball their balance when they make a withdrawal and decide whether it’s safe to take a little more. And many contend that with credit and debit cards and all the other means of paying bills and transferring funds, balancing is just too confusing and too much trouble. They take it on trust and leave it to the bank.

 Although we write darn few checks every month, reconciling the account is not a simple task. Deposits come in from several sources, and money drains away to several more. Then there are ATM withdrawals and debit card purchases—some noted, some not, and others scribbled in a way that makes 3s look like 8s and 2s like 6s.

 That leads to the trust-the-bank-or-dig-through-the-file dilemma. I was never a trusting person and 25 years in the news business coupled with 20 years as a substitute teacher made me even less willing to take anyone’s word for . . . well, just about anything. Over the years, I’ve uncovered transfers made from my account by mistake and deposits not credited. And don’t get me started on computer glitches. But digging through the file could be an exercise in futility if the deposit or withdrawal slip or store tally never made it into my office to be filed. So, when I can’t verify or conjure a hazy memory, if the amount is reasonable, I grit my teeth and trust.

 When all the entries are checked off or circled to show they’re outstanding, I do the math. It wasn’t my strongest subject in school, so I’m grateful that algebra and geometry aren’t required. Simple addition and subtraction are all I need.

 But arriving at an answer that matches the last number in the checkbook is seldom simple. At least half the time the numbers differ. Sometimes the difference is due to a simple mistake and the numbers are off by 10 or 100. Other times the difference is an odd number, like $9.63 or $111.27. Experience tells those discrepancies are the sum or several other errors, mistakes I’ll have to find by going back to the date of the last reconciliation and checking the math on each entry.

 Usually, I track down the problem numbers, correct the math, and achieve that perfect balance.

 But sometimes—and I hate to admit this—I can’t find the error. Sometimes—and I really, really, hate to admit this because I have OCD tendencies—I have to put the checkbook and adding machine aside, suck it up, and trust the bank.

 But only if I’m off by less than $10. Otherwise, you’ll find me at my desk, eyes bleary, head throbbing, fingernails breaking on the number keys, sanity slipping away at an alarming rate.

 I’m starting to think my mental health depends on joining the others who no longer practice this almost-lost art. But then, so . . . 

That’s Zit

 

 

Carolyn J. Rose

 

How old do you need to be before you stop getting zits?

 

The answer, at least in my case, is: “Older than a post-retirement age I’d prefer not to mention.” To customize an old top-40 radio slogan, the zits just keep coming.

 

On the positive side, the zits erupting lately aren’t in the same league as those that made my teen years miserable. (Okay, for the record, my no-one-understands-me attitude and general teenage snarkiness also contributed to self-imposed misery, but zits didn’t help.) The zits I get at this age aren’t nearly as large or as bright. And they don’t bring along a crop of friends. But still, despite facial scrubs and special creams, fresh air and healthy foods, they come.

 

Back in those teen years I grew out my bangs to cover platoons of pimples on my forehead. I kept my hair shoulder-length and never shoved it behind my ears because that would reveal lurking zits. I tucked my chin into turtleneck sweaters or scarves.

 

But zits are like lies—they’re often difficult to cover up. Especially when they erupt in extremely visible places.

 

And zits are extroverts. They love to pop up at special events. They never miss the opportunity to show up for a hot date, an important job interview, a conference presentation, or a wedding.

 

A particularly pointy one, the color of a ripe tomato, appeared on the tip of my nose on the morning of a friend’s aisle walk in the 60s. My bridesmaid’s dress was bright green and included a wide hair ribbon to match. The contrast in colors made the blemish more obvious.

 

Now, trust me, there are places on your face where you can apply a thick layer of zit-hiding cream and it will stick because the skin is smooth and dry. And there are places where the facial terrain is pitted, creased, wrinkled, or oily, and those skin-toned creams crack, clump, or slide off.

 

There are instances where hot packs can speed up the progress of zit, or cold packs can slow it. And there are instances where taking a drastic step and popping a pimple can mitigate the problem. But, trust me once again, the zit has to cooperate. It has to be ready to give up. And that one wasn’t.

 

As the hour approached, the zit swelled until it felt like I’d taken possession of Pinocchio’s lie-activated wooden nose and spent the day claiming to like beets and Richard Nixon. When it was my turn to walk down the aisle, I felt like that little reindeer guiding Santa’s sleigh through the fog.

 

I destroyed my copies of the wedding photos the moment they arrived. But memories of that day, like zits, keep popping up.