The Rara Calculator

You've reached for one, whenever you can't quite figure out the plus, or minus, hundred in your checking account or when you're trying to figure out that pesky interest compounded over a fiscal year. I'm talking about a calculator. I need one the second my ten fingers and toes fail me. But what about that mental calculator, the one we use to weigh risk against reward, the one we say those emotionless sociopaths seem to be born without.

Some of them are simple, like mine. Right plus wrong, should I times shouldn't I, consequence squared divided by impulse. Others are way more intricate, like Rachel's. Rara's calculations are a unique mix of calorie worthiness, morality, general safety, pleasure, and emotion. Nothing as neurotic as planned spontaneity, or three months salary socked away, never to be touched. Hers has a special button, one marked with a symbol that mixes the above criteria into one, comprehensive, educated decision. (We men avoid that button in favor of the one we think calculates logic but in the end we'll just end up doing something crass like spelling boobs with 80085).

We were on roller blades when she calculated the breeze in our face plus the adrenaline rush and minused out the missed weeks of work times piles of unpaid bills if she got hurt. (She's the bread winner. I can do my job from a wheel chair if need be). One quick press of the equal button and we were back home, unstrapping those aligned wheels of death and opting for a nice quiet night sipping wine and eating organic dark chocolate from the safety of our living room.

My Mom used the same calculator only she had what I called the Fuck It button, a manual override. She'd look at the last entry in her check book, the one that read -.78, and pull out her credit card, wave it around and say, Fuck It.