I was enrolled in a Statistics class once. I didn't want to be, but it was required for graduation. Some things in life are like that, and if you've got to do it, you've got to do it.
The teacher, a Ph.D., was so cool. He was tall, quite handsome, and had an air of command. He really loved statistics, you could tell. As he made his logical points, he would sometimes confess that it made the goosebumps activate on his arms, and he would ask, Could we feel it? Well, for myself, numbers and logic never actually gave rise to any goosebumps, but I was there to learn, and I did try to feel them. Without much success.
Early on, to get us involved, he lectured about the bell curve. The bell curve is a concept that I had gone 68 years knowing absolutely nothing about, and furthermore I felt I could probably go at least another decade (or two) without knowing any more, but as I mentioned, it was a required course. Well. He decided to use Age for a demonstration of the bell curve. Oh oh! Right away, I sensed I was going to be outstanding in this class.
I looked around. I was surrounded by young, educated, beautiful people: a couple of physical therapists, two physicians who did stuff like bring sanitation and medicine to aborigines, a sweetheart of a physician's assistant, several dietitians, quite a few registered nurses... all of these folks were either babies or baby boomers, as far as I was concerned. Nice company, though.
"How many of you are in the 20 to 29 year old age group?" the professor asked. I sat quietly in my chair. Some hands went up. "How many 30 to 39?" That took care of one of the doctors, the dietitians, and all but one of the nurses. I fidgeted a little. "40 to 49?" He wrote the numbers on the blackboard. That got the rest of them, by golly. Maybe he will stop there. I scotched down a little. He looked directly at me. This guy does pay attention.
"50 to 59?" It was a direct question. I couldn't talk. I shook my head. "Well, how old are you?" Apparently, there is no need to be tactful in a situation involving science; there was a bit of impatience in his voice.
"68," I grudgingly admitted. A few giggles arose from the class. I had spoiled the symmetry of the beautiful curvy line up there on the blackboard. Instead of being outstanding, I was clearly an outlier, one of those results in Statistics that they tend to throw out when they don't want to deal with them. I had increased the range (wasn't that good?). I was an aberrant score (that had to be bad); I had skewed the results (and that didn't sound promising). But I had paid the tuition and we all had to get on with our lives. I wasn't asked any more questions that day.
The next session, bless him, he looked kindly at me, and said, in the middle of the lecture and in front of everybody, "My colleagues back in Greeley send you their warmest best regards and are very happy, though surprised, that you are in this class." It was my chance.
"Go back, then, and watch their faces when you tell them I am pregnant!" I said.
There was a moment of silence. Then the class howled. The professor stood there, playing with his chalk, with a look of disbelief that was worth the entire 70 mile drive back and forth to Grand Junction. He allowed himself the luxury of a tiny smile, and continued with the business at hand.
What I learned in that class was that I should not pursue a career in mathematics. The probability of success for me was very slim, like beyond several standard deviations worth, unless I could feel the goosebumps or could shed 40 years. Neither option has presented itself.
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