As I type this, it’s a ridiculous hour in the morning and I can’t wind down enough to sleep. While lying in my bed earlier, I began staring at the clock, watching the minutes tick away. I began to think about numbers.
I don’t like numbers. I’m not a numerical person at all. I spend most of my time in the right side of my brain where numbers never go.
Right now, I really don’t like the numbers on the clock. They are telling me that I have a very important meeting in about 8 hours. During part of that time, I’ll have to go through my morning ‘toilette’ routine so I can attempt to look cute. During about an hour of that time, I’ll be driving to the meeting. So what should I be doing right now with this time? The one thing I cannot seem to do. Yet the numbers on the clock keep ticking away.
I also don’t like the numbers that reflect my weight. I mean to say, I REALLY don’t like those numbers. In fact, I don’t like them so much that I have no idea what they are. At a doctor’s appointment earlier this week, I stepped right up on the scale as directed. But then I closed my eyes while the nurse wrote down the numbers. She knows. She understands.
Unfortunately, health matters require that I have an MRI every year. After the radiologist doing the MRI asks you questions about breast implants, metal anywhere in your body, and reminds you to take off your watch, he/she asks you how much you weigh. I don’t know. So I tell them to guess – and I don’t want to know THAT number either!
Now I’m not a rocket scientist, I’m not even the sharpest tool in the shed, but I have an idea for a million dollar invention. When you have an MRI done, you have to lie down on a sliding panel that slips inside the MRI tube. How about if someone put a scale underneath that panel? When you laid down on it, a monitor on the machine would show your weight to the radiologist and they could do whatever they have to do with the information. Just don’t tell me the number.
While we’re on the subject of the numbers involved with weight, we should also mention those numbers that sadistic 3 year olds in China sew into the seam of your clothes. I’m sure the 3 year old seamstresses are just doing their jobs. I usually don’t like those numbers either. But today I bought a pair of jeans with a lower number in them than expected! I guess I’ll have to cut the 3 year olds in China some slack for that.
If you’ve read prior blog posts I’ve written, you already know that I don’t like the numbers in my bank account either. But then, I have no idea what they actually are. Thanks to my financial advisor, I don’t have to know those numbers anymore. Occasionally, just for kicks I think, he will throw some numbers out at me. If I’m standing in front of him when this happens, my eyes glaze over and my brain slips into a comatose state until the numerical information is erased from my memory – it usually takes about 10 seconds. If he sends the information to me electronically, I delete it and move on.
What I do know is this: when I was in control of my bank account, it never had money in it. EVER! And that was depressing and stressful to me. So I did what many other women do when they are depressed and stressed. I went shopping. As most women realize, retail therapy can heal the sick and raise the dead. Unfortunately, it cannot heal a sick bank account (not even when you save 50% on something you buy). Having a financial advisor who dwells in the left side of his brain where the numbers go to play just makes my life so much easier. Besides, I think I actually have a little more money saved up now than I did before. At least this time when I told my advisor I was buying some jeans he didn’t throw a fit. That’s got to mean something good.
I also have no idea what percentage of hairs in my head is gray. Once several years ago, my hairdresser started to tell me this number and I stopped her. That is just not a number I want to know! Who wants to know that they are getting old? Now she just colors and highlights over all the hairs and I sit and smile.
A few years ago I went to get a passport. You have to fill out a lengthy form with all the typical information, including where you were born, when you were born, where you live, your mother’s maiden name, the name of your first pet, and your physical features. A couple of the questions were very confusing to me. There was a blank for me to write in my weight, a number known but to a few nurses, doctors, and God. Really? You need to know this? Is the ship I’m sailing on to another country going to capsize if all the information on the passports of the people on board is inaccurate? I told the postal clerk to guess, so he did.
It also asked for my hair color, information known only to my hairdresser and God. I stared at the clerk for a moment and asked, “Do you want to color of hair that I was born with (bald), the color it became as I matured (brown), the color that it actually is now (some deviant pattern of grays and browns), or the color that I pay for every month? The poor man paused for a moment, looked at my hair, and said, “Looks blond to me.” Well, it is and will be, so long as I’m not away from the hairdresser for too long.
Don’t worry, I’m not leaving the country any time soon.
Fifty minutes later than when I started,