A Meat Poem
I loathe meatloaf.
I’m not keen for meatballs.
I’m not crazy about lunchmeat.
I won’t eat mincemeat or sweetmeats.
The Beatles’ song, Lovely Rita, (meter maid) is the first mete word that came to mind, which reminded me that I am not ‘one’ with the metric system. I learned the American standard measurement system (Imperial) of yards, feet, inches, quarts, gallons, teaspoons, etc. The metric system makes no sense to me at all. For instance, if someone says something is one meter high, I have to convert that to a yard stick plus something like four inches to make it sort of work in my head. I’ve memorized that a 2 liter bottle of some beverage is roughly a half gallon, and that I can visualize.
Telling me that the metric system is ‘easier’ mathematically, because you convert/manipulate zeroes and decimals or wHaTeVeR, does nothing for me. My brain doesn’t work that way. I can’t ‘see’ the length/distance/volume/weight in my head. I can visualize a mile, but when you tell me you ran a 5 kilometer race, I only know how far that is because I’ve memorized that 5K is a little over 3 miles. I do not visualize 5K as a thing that is 5K in and of itself. I have to convert to a functional measurement in my head, and I have no pressing need to do that.
So I shan’t.
I love ‘old fashioned’ words, but helpmeet and unmeetly are too awkward even for me.
Linda hosts Stream of Consciousness Saturday.
Until we meet again,