PEMDAS.
I still remember the day I first saw those strange letters on the whiteboard. I couldn’t have been more than 12 years old, and I was fully perplexed.
There I was, sitting in a middle school Algebra class, and there was no math. Just a bunch of letters — letters that didn’t even spell out a real word.
What on earth was going on?
Moments later, my teacher decoded the mystery. PEMDAS was simply an acronym for the mathematical Order of Operations.
When faced with a complicated math problem, we should solve the area in Parentheses first, the teacher explained. Then, we should resolve the Exponents. After that, we should take care of anything that needs to be Multiplied and Divided. And finally, we should handle everything that must be Added or Subtracted.
The teacher then wrote a jumbled math problem on the board, making quick work of the tangled mess to show us how to use the power of PEMDAS to our advantage.
“This is critical,” the teacher exclaimed. “You will need to know this principle to solve the problems in this class.”
My confusion turned to righteous indignation.
Up to this point, math class had consisted of conquering straightforward tasks. What’s 150 divided by 3? What’s 4 to the third power? I did what was asked of me to the best of my abilities, and that was that.
But now? Now I was expected to just do all this work on my own, just to make a problem solvable.
It didn’t seem fair to me. Why was I being asked to jump through all these hoops? To understand and apply these obscure rules about what to do when?
This is so pointless, I fumed inwardly. I’ll never have to use this in real life.
Oh how wrong I was.
It was not just another work day.
I was cooking lunch with several colleagues at the Ronald McDonald House — part of my employer’s volunteer initiatives.
As lunchtime approached, I took my place on the serving line. My task was to open a sandwich bun, put it on a plate, fill it with meatballs and pass it to a colleague — who would help fulfill the next part of the meal.
With sanitary gloves covering both of my hands, I prepared for the mass of people entering the dining room.
I quickly developed a routine for making sandwiches. My left hand would pry the bun open, while my right one would add the fillings.
While I did this, several other colleagues cooked more food behind me. This way, we made sure we fully covered the lunch rush.
Things were going smoothly at first. But once the new batch of food was integrated into the serving line, everything went haywire.
Suddenly, my rhythm was off. My hands no longer instinctively knew what role to play. And I lost track of what I was doing.
At one point, instead of filling a sandwich bun, I handed the empty bun to the person I was serving.
My colleague quickly stepped in and filled the order. But she gave me a hard time about it for the rest of the day.
As I reflected on what went wrong, my mind drifted to somewhere I hadn’t expected. It went back to PEMDAS.
For my experience on the food line was like a math problem. My hands were the operators and the plated sandwich was the output.
It was a simple equation, until the new batch of food was introduced. Suddenly, there was more information than I could process in real-time.
With a line of hungry patrons, I couldn’t just call Timeout to solve the suddenly more complicated math problem. So I powered through — and made some boneheaded errors.
My words from decades earlier had come back to haunt me. Order of Operations was indeed quite present for me in real life.
My serving mishap story is not unique.
Order of Operations is critical in nearly everything we do.
We rely on a proven routine, both for survival and for cultural acceptance. There is a sequence to things — a pattern we’re inclined to follow. And there are consequences for severing ties with that sequence.
This is not only true on the assembly line. It’s true in all corners of life.
If we don’t shower and brush our teeth each morning, we grace our loved ones, friends and co-workers with a foul stench. If we don’t properly prep our meals before cooking them, we waste a perfectly fine dish. If we take items from the shelves at the store without rendering payment on the way out, we break the law. And if we get intimate with someone without consent, we break the law and obliterate trust.
Whether we’re creatures of routine or change artists, we must remain vigilant to the power that Order of Operations holds. We must do what we can to avoid utter chaos.
For the costs of chaos can be fatal — either literally or through social exclusion. To survive and thrive, we must find some order in a world that’s naturally frayed.
Order defines the boundaries of connection. And connection allows us to achieve far more together than we can alone.
Even as technological advances break down established barriers — from processes to communication challenges — this principle remains as true as ever. While the tech systems we rely upon today are more efficient and expansive than ever before, there is an established protocol to each of them — both for coding them and for using them.
Order of Operations reigns supreme.
As it turns out, the day I saw the word PEMDAS on the whiteboard might have been the most consequential of my scholastic life.
It opened my eyes to a critical framework. One that could help me for the rest of my life.
Yet, I believe it could have a similar effect on all of us.
The more we are aware of the invisible processes that drive our habits and routines, the more we can use them to our advantage.
This selective mindfulness can keep us centered, coherent and consistent. These qualities can help us provide even greater value to those we impact.
So don’t mock PEMDAS.
It might be a clunky acronym, but it’s also the key to something profound.