What a fool old Adam was. Had everything his own way; had succeeded in gaining the love of the best looking girl in the neighborhood, but yet unsatisfied with his conquest he had to eat a miserable little apple.
At that age， I'd take any excuse to make estimates and do minor arithmetic. I'd calculate our gas mileage -- figure out useless statistics on things like grocery spending. I'd been hearing an ad campaign about smoking. I can't remember the details， but basically the ad said， every puff of a cigarette takes some number of minutes off of your life: I think it might have been two minutes per puff. At any rate， I decided to do the math for my grandmother. I estimated the number of cigarettes per days， estimated the number of puffs per cigarette and so on. When I was satisfied that I'd come up with a reasonable number， I poked my head into the front of the car， tapped my grandmother on the shoulder， and proudly proclaimed， "At two minutes per puff， you've taken nine years off your life！"
