“Call me at 8 a.m., my time,” Min-Mogul told me. “My time” being California time. So, dutifully I was up at 6, coughing the sleep from my voice, gathering my wits, dialing away.

What is wrong with this picture?

Missouri time is two hours later than CA, not earlier. Welcome to the world of dyslexia.

In this particular (and true) scenario, no harm was done…Mini-Mogul had wisely turned off his phone for the night. The only harm was to my self-esteem.

Welcome to my world.

I’ve been dyslexic forever. Didn’t know it until my twenties. I could read by the age of four. But I couldn’t tell time until I was ten…12:15, say, and 12:45 looked exactly the same to me. I grew up (as so many of us did in the days before the condition was known) having people tell my parents “she’s very smart, she just needs to try harder.” Which is what I have spent my life doing.

Dyslexia is a pain in the ass. It’s not consistent day to day. Some days it’s bad. Some days, worse; some—impossible. When it’s bad I can’t read to save my life. Which makes re-writing a dozen times more difficult…although not the writing itself, strange to say.

Dyslexic, and my typing is worse than usual. Dyslexic and I have to be read things that other people might easily read: Words are like spaghetti-os on the page. Give me directions? Fuhgeddaboudit. And then, of course, there are incidents like the one this morning.

I assure you—as I will assure Mini-Mogul when I speak with him at the proper time…as he scratches his head wondering why this insane woman left him a voice message at four ayem—that Lynn is not stupid. Really. Lynn just has a condition. And she WILL try harder.

 

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