I am sixty-one years old. As a baby - and even as a child - I was considered very intelligent. That goes to show that you can't believe everything you read. My mother thought I was a genius. No, she really did. She didn't think all her children were geniuses - just me. Borderline genius, actually. She had the test scores to prove it. But she also thought I spoke seven languages fluently. She told everybody. For the record, I speak English. I also speak something vaguely resembling Spanish, as long as I don't have to venture into the past tense, or the future, or god forbid, the subjunctive mood. I can manage to buy groceries at the public markets here in Mexico, where I've taken to spending part of the winter. I think perhaps there was a mix-up at the test centre. I suspect there's a real borderline genius running around out there, wondering why everybody is so amazed at the way she's overcome her limitations.
On the other hand, maybe I was just as smart as the test scores indicated, and I simply squandered all that grey matter. In any event, I'm not all that smart now.
I love to read, listen to music, sing, walk - especially beside the sea - oh, and I am an internet junkie. Just ask my husband.
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