Poindexter.

Someone once told me that I am a Poindexter. He was searching for a polite way to say that I am a nerd. This was in recent years, long since the days of the thick glasses, the gaudy braces, the poodle hair-do. I contemplated the term and decided that it fit.

I remember reading about the Renaissance man in the seventh grade. He was the kind of guy who could write poetry, play a lyre, discuss politics, paint a portrait, and read Latin. He was familiar with ancient history and philosophers. He was fascinated by science and math. He was, in short, a Poindexter, but back in those days people thought that an unquenchable desire to learn was a good thing. I wanted to be a Renaissance man, and there were only two obstacles in my path: namely, the Renaissance is long gone and I'm a woman.

Now, I'll admit, I'm a limited artist and poet. My political knowledge is not what it should be. And I can only play three chords on a guitar right now. I can speak a little broken Spanish when called upon to do so, and I bought a Teach Yourself French CD that I listen to whenever I have a few spare minutes. I know a couple of Latin phrases that I picked up watching Law and Order, but nothing spectacular. I've managed to store a smattering of historical facts with no attached dates or contexts in water-logged liquor boxes in the far right rear of my brain, and some shabby philosophers mumble about existence and smoke pipes filled with cherry vanilla tobacco in another dingy corner, sitting on crates of old algebra homework and half-read copies of books by Carl Sagan, Edwin Abbot, and Stephen Hawking.

But all things considered, given the nature of the obstructions to my becoming a Renaissance man, I think that I make a damn fine modern day Poindexter.