Baby, you know I’m not a mathematician. You know that adding simple numbers isn’t something I can do. You know that subtracting simple numbers isn’t something I can do either. When we first met, I told you, baby, I didn’t understand quantum physics, regular physics, or how many a dozen is. And you laughed like you thought I was joking. And then I laughed because you were laughing. And then I drank too much because I couldn’t accurately count the number of drinks I’d had. Also, on that date, I explained to you that I had skipped every single math class I had ever had in school because they seemed boring. And you laughed again because you thought I was joking, but I wasn’t.

Baby, I don’t need a fourth-grade math skillset to know that you + me = something special.

Baby, how long have we been dating? You could tell me it’d been a couple of years, because I feel so comfortable with you, and also because I am not good at math. You could also tell me it’d been only a couple of months, because everything feels so fresh and exciting and new and also because I am not good at math.

Baby, we’ve had so many good times together. Like, remember that date when we went out for brunch, and I ordered all those eggs? I ordered scrambled eggs, and then the waiter asked how many, and I panicked and said nine. I did that because I get nervous around you, baby, but also because I have no conception of how many eggs nine is. Then I ate all those eggs and got sick on the floor of that brunch place and was told not to come back. How many brunch places have I been told never to step foot in ever again since we’ve been dating, baby? As you know, I’m not a numbers person.

Baby, when I think about our future together, I get scared, because I realize I don’t know how old I am due to the math thing. I know I’m not a baby, baby, because I can walk and talk, but beyond that, who can really say? At night, when I can’t sleep, I don’t count sheep, because—you know. Instead, I picture us together, living in the country. It’s you, it’s me, and it’s eighty golden retrievers. Is that a lot? Baby, I don’t even know if eighty dogs is a lot, because I’m bad at math. I do remember you being upset when I bought you thirty cats for your birthday. But maybe you were just mad because they were cats and not because you were actually frustrated about the number of them. Baby, you know I don’t know if eighty dogs or thirty cats is a lot, but I do know that I want to be with you.

Baby, I don’t need to have the intellect of Albert Einstein or even Albert Fishmen, my nine-year-old nephew, to know that you’re the one for me. I may be unable to add, subtract, divide, multiply, or effectively use a calculator, but I know there’s something here. And hey, baby, I know I’ve got my faults. There’s the whole math thing, the being banned from brunch places because of overeating due to the math thing, and all those cats I bought you that ended up kind of wrecking your apartment because of the math thing. Baby, I may never understand the Pythagorean Theorem or the associative law of multiplication or even what all those zeroes that come after the one in my savings account mean. Ugh, so-so-so many zeroes! It’s kind of concerning.

Baby, you know I’m bad at math, but you + me = something special.