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Fractions troubled about three-fifths of us in school. I don't know why. We were using fractions before we even began school.
"My, how big you've grown. How old are you now?"
The child beamed and held up his fingers. "I'm four. And a half."
But now when someone says to me, "My, how big you've grown. How old are you now?" first, I whap them halfway upside the head, then reply, "I'm in my 60s."
We have gone from tacking every fraction onto our age to rounding off that number to a general, roundabout, sorta-kinda nonspecific range: "In my 60s."
Unless a senior discount is involved. Then I'm 67. Just 67. There is no "and a half." If I can get the full discount without the "and a half," we'll leave the fractions alone. It would take two-thirds of my brain power to calculate numbers that high.
Back when I was approaching senior discount age, I would tell clerks that I'm nearly in my 60s. In three or four years, that's how I will again answer the age-old age question about how old: I'm nearly in my 60s.
I'll just leave out the part about which side of 60 I "nearly" am.
Sister-in-law Fran, who is "nearly in her 60s," wears a T-shirt that proudly proclaims: "I survived the sixties -- twice." Those of you who were born way back in the mid-1900s know what I mean.
As a growing teenage boy, my feet sprouted to a size 11 ½. That fraction was very important. Squeezing into 11s was uncomfortable, but I swished around a bit in 12s.
But I grew up in a family that put a premium on frugality. I was stuck with "for-five-dollars-you-can-wear-them" shoes. They never came in size "and a half."
"Stuff a quarter of a newspaper into the toe of each shoe and you'll be fine," Dad said.
Then one day, Grandma showed up with a brand-new pair of shoes. They also were not "and-a-half."
"They were marked down to $3," Grandma beamed. "For $3, you can wear them!"
I may have lost three-sixteenths of my respect for Grandma that day. But I later calculated that perhaps I inherited four-fifths of my humor from her.
I used to apply fractions to my height. I just KNEW that it was my destiny to be a six-footer. I was thinking 6-foot-6. That seemed to be the minimum height to play small forward in the NBA.
It turns out that to be a professional basketball player, you have to do more than have people look at you and say "My, how big you've grown." The coaches also expect you to be able to put the ball in the basket at least half of the time. Four-fifths of the time at the free throw line.
I never hit 6 feet. I topped out at 5-foot-11. And three-quarters.
As I grew older, I rounded off the fraction to an even 6 feet -- which is what my driver's license says I am, even though gravity is trying to tug me toward 5-foot-11 and one-quarter.
That's how fractions work when you're in your 60s. They round up to the nearest convenient number that doesn't involve division, algebra or calculators. I'm perfectly content with my driver's license rounding me off to a general 6 foot even. Besides, that's what I am with my shoes on, and I rarely drive barefooted.
Oops, it appears that I have filled up 31/32 of my allotted column space. Remember these words of wisdom: If anyone says to you, "My, how big you've grown," you can roll up this newspaper and swat them.
Or divide it in half if you find unfractioned shoes on sale. Because for $3 and half a newspaper, you can wear them.
Tell Cole what percentage of this diatribe fits you at burton.w.cole@gmail.com. He'll be halfway asleep in his easy chair, which is tilted three-quarters of the way back.