I have a strange relationship with numbers. They puzzle me, and often grip me with a stickiness that is of more strength than they ought to be worth.

I was never good at math as a child. That’s what I was told inexplicably at a very elementary age and I accepted it and believed it an didn’t ever pursue rising above the unfair and unfounded proclamation. It was my mom, probably trying to make me feel better about doing poorly on a test in third or fourth grade. I remember her words clearly: “You are just not good at math.” I’m sure there was more to it, maybe she complimented some other aspect of my academia, or was trying to take a burden off my self-imposed perfectionist personality. I’m sure it wasn’t meant to be mean. But the words shaped me all the way through college. I took the minimum required mathematics classes, never tried any harder than absolutely necessary and conceded to a preconceived expectation of generalized failure in that subject.

Why is this important now? I am perplexed by my obsession with numbers in their relation to me. I find myself counting things obsessively, working out percentages, analyzing numerical data, calculating averages and consistently defining myself through a sum of figures.

Pounds on the scale. Body fat percentage. Calories in a delicacy, Pace needed to maintain in a race to beat last year’s age group winner. Weeks until taper. Laps in the pool, seconds in rest intervals, strokes in each length, time before refueling, speed on the Garmin, minutes in the morning to shower.  Score in the game, Kenny’s pitching stats, Cooper’s AR points, Charlie’s violin tempo, Casey’s ETA and when to start dinner. I find myself counting pumps as I fill my bike tires, counting steps up each flight, counting pushups while the microwave heats my coffee, counting glasses of water and glasses of wine, the number of almonds in a handful, the number of chocolate chips on top of my ice cream. Endless and insane.

I don’t necessarily see these sums and figures as demon. They seem to simply fall into a matter-of-fact category that has become as normal to me as what time to set the coffee pot. Sometimes I purpose to ignore the numbers. I often times will go months without weighing myself because I know that I’ve been essentially the same weight (pregnancies not included) since I was 30, and seeing a number that doesn’t coincide with a current mood or level of fitness can throw me into a funk for days. I still fit into the dress I wore on my first fancy date with Casey on Christmas of 2002, so I think I’m pretty steady.

Sometimes I run without a watch, but I’ll only do a loop whose milage I know down to tenth. Sometimes I’ll make myself eat something right out of the big bag without counting how many, swim a session in the pool without a watch or remembering laps. It does leave me feeling a little dizzy, as if I’ve had a glass of wine on an empty stomach. But I do it to make sure I’m not completely clinical OCD, like it’s going to change anything anyway.

Today I am 43. It’s kind of milestone-less. Everyone makes such a big deal about 40 and then they leave you floating on a rudderless raft until you’re close enough to 50 to start planning a party. I’ve tried to make a big moment each year – setting a goal that I can work for and see through. It started when I turned 39 and ran my first marathon. At 40 I found myself standing on my first Masters podium at a well-respected triathlon. At 41 I swam 4.4 miles across the Chesapeake Bay. At 42 I qualified for Boston. And at 43, I plan to complete my first Ironman 70.3.

Numbers. How many numbers make up the sum of my person? Are they the ones that really count?

What if I counted my life in dog walks and encouraging words, in laughs and sleeps, in hugs and little boy smiles and pieces of chocolate cake?  What if my stats were measured less by calculation and more by accident? Something to consider…