Numbers decide way too many important things for us. If your bloodwork doesn't come back as a .8 but a .4 of something, then you don't get the magic whatzit pill because you have not contracted Symdrome X. If you miss one more question on that exam then the dust shifts, a dam breaks somewhere, and you don't go to College U. And if only you could move decimals with your mind, you'd be a zillionaire.
Think about all the daily instances where numbers just, well, they just fuck you over. That's "low normal" and not something we will be spending our time on. That's not a fever. That's not a number I can put on my form that tells me to tell you which door to wait in front of until someone comes and asks for you, oh, and where's that number I gave you to pin to your shirt? If the pain ain't past 4, you'll get no more!
Try as every long form and computer might, people cannot be read with numbers. We are not points on an array conjured up in some godawful class snagged halfway between psychology and statistics. This number of bowel movements is awesome, one less and you'll die soon. This pool ph is optimal, but the water is 51 degrees. Your kid is not in the normal range of our baby fat-ridden growth chart. Turn that pyramid upside down, you need 100 servings of protein now and no carbs! No, wait.
I like remembering numbers (which is why I often offer to hold my friends' credit cards for them), but I don't like how they are used to describe everything indescribable--like people. Bo Derek be damned, we are not a sum total of anything. And we shouldn't be scared half out of our minds by slights and fractions. This little sliver between normal and death--which is like the light under a barely ajar door--is what you should let drive your every thought. Write everything down, memorize it, and buy a burial plot just in case.
I do count calories because I am in the midst of losing the weight I lost two years ago which, without aid of GPS, map, nor legend, managed to find me again. It wasn't a pleasant reunion. Nearly halfway back to the number I'd like to be, I'm not about to stop counting now. So okay, I do think of myself as a number using numbers to become another number. But that little bit of rationality will not deter me on my rant...uh, screed about numbers.
You know who makes a big deal about numbers and absolutes and thus, perfection? The directions wench who lives in the box in your car. She will admonish you no end if you piss with her numbers, with her plan of action. And if, at mile 109.6 you find your ass in a corn field well then, by god, you were meant to be in that corn field. (If you see Cary Grant, don't get out of the car. You're in 1959.)
Just like our chat about autopilot before, beware of absolutes and alwayses and gottas: Beware of numbers which cannot be altered. And for gosh sakes don't let yourself become one at the expense of your idea of an identity. Unless you're a wiseass and want to be pi, or infinity.
Check your oil, check your ph, take a barometer to your brain and a metronome to your afternoons. What have you got to lose except a little infintesimal drab of moments which you can take off the books, away from the form, and outside the box?
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