For those of us who despise math -- and most of us writers do -- it's hard to accept that some aspects of life are all about the numbers. Especially when there are so many of them about such crucial things to keep track of:
How much money is in my bank account?
How many days until the milk expires?
What's my cholesterol? Blood sugar? Blood pressure?
How many days until my next period?
How many more crunches before I can plop back on the couch?
How many miles are on my car?
How many hours of sleep until I'm really rested?
And, of course, the killjoy of killjoys that lurks everywhere:
How many COVID cases in my county?
Everyone has a body and a bank account, so there's no escaping these nefarious numerals. Yet if age is just a number, then why can't all these things be just numbers too? You know, up to interpretation, like song lyrics or a journal entry. Some people find comfort in knowing that 2 + 2 always = 4. But to me, numbers are unforgiving. They don't care if you had a bad day that drove you to buy an ice cream maker ($100), crank out a batch of butter brickle (cholesterol, blood sugar, and BP through the roof), and stay up all night watching The Great British Baking Show (3 hours sleep). Letters, on the other hand, are so much more sympathetic. They make up words designed to describe how that day made you feel, turning it into art instead of a series of 0s and 1s that don't add up on a computer.
Then again, maybe numbers neurosis isn't a writer thing but a me thing.
No wonder I'd rather read than count sheep.
