Word wench

I knew I had a problem when I was 11-years-old, standing in my small town's newly remodeled supermarket, beaming proudly at the new express checkout lanes. The sign no longer read “10 items or less,” but instead “10 items or fewer.” Somewhere along the remodel process, in the big building where supermarket signage is manufactured, a person--no, a hero--corrected decades of grievous grammatical error. You see, the word “fewer” is used for a countable number of items, and less is used for items that cannot be counted. It should always have been 10 items or fewer, and shame on copy writers everywhere for not correcting this sooner. (Example: People who go through the express checkout with fewer items spend less time at the store!)

The erection of these new signs was a victory for grammar, and if the excitement pulsing through my veins was any indication, I felt it was a tiny victory for me too.

An 11-year-old should probably care about other, less mature topics, like kickball, sleepovers, and the Backstreet Boys. But not me.

As long as I can remember I've harbored what some would call an inappropriate emotional investment in all things spelling and grammar. One of my proudest life moments was when I finished my first New York Times crossword puzzle without assistance. It was my own personal “Rocky” moment. I danced in circles, waved my arms over my head, leapt from toe to toe. Except I had no fans cheering in the stands, and no one really understood the sincere depths of my elation. Similarly, one of my most crippling life moments was when a self-described verbally challenged boyfriend beat me in Boggle, a battleground on which I always reigned supreme. The worst? He beat me on a technicality, writing down a combination of letters which may or may not have formed a legitimate word. Of course he made me check it, and when it came up on dictionary.com, my vision went blurry and I felt for a moment as if I might lose consciousness.

You know, sometimes it feels like word games are all I have. It is the only area of life when I know I will perform better than the majority of players. When I don't, it feels like my one talent is pulled violently from my grasp. Remember in Titanic, when the passengers get locked up in steerage, and that lovely Irish bloke pleads, "Let us have chance!" I feel like that.

So yes, if you beat me at a word game or correct my grammar, the emotional fallout that results is equivalent to what I would feel if I was locked on the bottom of the world's greatest ocean liner. No keys, merciful ship crew, ravishing Kate Winslet, or Carpathia in sight. Devastation does not begin to describe it. But as low as my lowest points are, oh! The highs are even higher!

Imagine the dizzying glee I feel when I find an error or style inconsistency in anything from a publication to commercial product packaging (typically rife with error). Every day is like a scavenger hunt. It reaffirms my existence when I find a spelling or grammar mistake in a book. The world needs me so I can find this. I saw it; I know it's here; I want to fix it. Sometimes if I'm having a bad day, I pick up flyers or brochures for the specific purpose of editing them. I feel a rush of relief when I make an edit. I render order in my small corner of the world for a few brief seconds, when the words are lined up just like I want, perfectly punctuated so a new reader can breeze easily through.

I guess you could call this compulsion a mental illness, since I've all but given up on a career in writing, editing, or publishing of any kind. Why do I continue to care so much if all of this anxiety, emotional investment, and red-penning won't lead to a paycheck? In order to get hired, apparently, you need to do more than be able to find missing emdashes and compound modifiers in print. Also, apparently the touchdown dance I do every time I find a mistake isn't "workplace appropriate."

Well, I'll be. Brandi Chastain took her shirt off when she won the Women's World Cup game in 1999. Is my victory over run-on sentences any less meaningful?

My only regret in all of this is that on occasion, especially when involved in a game of Scrabble or Bananagrams, I've let my feverish competition get the best of me. I have yelled at strangers when they ask if proper nouns are acceptable. I've sent shivers down the spines of my friends by unleashing tortured screeches from the depths of my soul when I'm beaten. This is not how a lady should act. I would hate to think that my death grip on the English language has frightened people, or prevented the development of new friendships. My inner circle nicknamed me "the word wench," and even I am forced to admit a more fitting nickname has never been bequeathed.