Sorry about the Shelf Liners, Mr. Steinke

Immediately after our ninth grade lunch period, I traveled to the classroom of Mr. Steinke who had done me the immense favor of smoking a cigar during his break. The smell of his breath so nauseated me that I waved his help aside and learned to solve even the most abstruse problems by myself—which reminds me that he taught advanced algebra, not circles. So, my apologies to whomever taught me about working with circles and to Mr. Steinke because I forgot he didn’t. In spite of my glorious performance on tests (I was a good student back then), I’m numerically dysfunctional. Yesterday my husband and I spent most of the afternoon trying to devise a foolproof method for constructing reputable shelf liners for new lazy susans in the kitchen. We failed miserably.

For those who’ve never experienced this particular problem, lazy susans are cabinets that are set into corners and have an interior that is less than a full circle that pivots on a central shaft so that the user can select items resting on any portion of the shelves or opt to close them off by moving the corner doors (the missing pie slice of the circle) to the front, instead. (If my description doesn’t resonate with you, you may have a clue as to the reason my shelf liners don’t fit properly.) I wanted removable liners on the shelves to prevent my being forced to scrub olive oil stains out of wood, because drips happen. I was too proud to simply purchase ugly brown coverings online.

I’m sure there’s a greater message in the fact that I did well in school and still can’t cut a semi-circular shelf liner with a hole in the middle that neatly fits the space. (I can’t construct good mitered corners, either.) The world is rife with odd shapes—including fractals. Modern archeologists ponder ancient carvings of circles within circles within circles as potential information about portals. My shelf liners provide portals to my leaking education that has suffered by me using instant answers from Google. (I didn’t find easy-to-follow directions for shelf liners online, by the way.) Reality isn’t solid, plumb, predictable, or straight. Every day I encounter some new theory or inexplicable set of circumstances that confound what I learned in school. Every day someone invents technology that makes me sigh in resignation. (Why is my face a good identifier some days and not others?) No wonder certain people would love to flatten out the earth or be confident that no humans ever trod upon the moon. Life would feel easier to comprehend. We could all live in black-and-white Mayberry, RFD, and have good teeth.

Of course, regardless of how quickly life seems to rocket past what you already know—even when you know a lot, if you succumb to hiding in ignorance you’re only exacerbating the complexity. More and more around you ceases to make sense. You suffer more headaches. In spite of the fact that perverse math educators insist on changing the methods used to solve for answers periodically (job security?), our brains want us to keep up. Age doesn’t excuse us from the human race (and a race it seems to be). We can’t protect our interests or even identify what they are if we can’t comprehend today’s reality, knowing that tomorrow will bring more changes because serving our interests isn’t a priority for unethical players. Con people have declared a permanent OPEN SEASON on anyone who dares to be clueless—especially if they’ve survived from an earlier time. We’re the deer desperately seeking safe refuge before we’re harvested.

So, my husband and I will go back to the shelf liners today. I’m sure we can do better.

*Post note: The photo proves we finally achieved an acceptable—not perfect—product.