Then, they brought out the numbers.

The two-day training course was going smoothly, if a bit without any major surprises and/or excitements. I had successfully psyched myself up to be in its zone (after a little while of battling with the worries and sorries that I would've been better off working on my deliverables, instead of being stuck in a training class for two whole days, burning my bum off from all that sitting and cramping up my face from all that smiling and pretending to be interested when what I really wanted was to be somewhere else) and decided to breeze through it all as best as I could.

And I was doing fine, I guess, for someone who hadn't attended a training session (as part of its audience) for quite a time. I decided that I was going to open my mind to learning, and so I earnestly listened and happily jumped into the classroom discussions, surreptitiously checking the clock on the wall, from time to time.

Until the last two hours of the class, when the trainer's voice boomed with the line, "now, we'll be doing a bit of Math."

Bummer. Major, real-time bummer.

It all just went downhill for loveless, hapless me, forced to crunch away at numerous statistical formula, sadly confronting my undeniable mortality as I worked, as slow as a tortoise, on all those text-free and extremely unromantic excel sheets.

Oh, but there were always the friendly seat mates who were understanding enough of the mathematically challenged lot of this world and who were more than willing to help.

Whew.

I therefore conclude (for the umpteenth time) that I am an English Major.