Numbers with Wings

The other day someone asked me how old I was and my reply was "32." This would have been correct two months ago. Had I given my brain just one more second to recall the fact that I'd recently celebrated yet another earthly revolution around the sun, I would have (correctly) replied "33."

Remember the days when you didn't need to pause momentarily upon being asked your age? For me, those days ended at about the age of 22. These days, I find myself lingering over the answer before accurately responding to questions regarding my age (and that of my parents, siblings, friends, etc.). When exactly does this bizarre, age-related amnesia set in?

After realizing I'd once again answered the age question incorrectly, I began pondering my newly-reached age (right, like I never do that otherwise) and how it wreaks minor havoc on my quiet little OCD-induced numbers fixation.

Here's how it breaks down: my lucky number has always been 11. I am also very fond of 16 (the number of letters in my full name) and its multiples, most notably, 32. So being 32 was a score in my little black book of bizarro ways I categorize and rate things in my life. 32 is one of those magical numbers in my obsessive-compulsive world, the number I'll always employ in completely irrelevant areas like alarm clocks and microwaves. Ahhh, 32.

But now I am 33, making my blantant overuse of the number 32 somewhat incongruous, if not completely pitiable. See, 32 is still my number of choice but my twisted mind interprets that as a refusal to acknowledge the aging process and move on to the fact that 32 is behind me. That is, until I realized 33 is a multiple of 11, my lucky number, the number of ounces tacked on to my birth weight, oh sweet blessed 11!

Upon reaching this happy revelation, I proceeded to toss the number 33 around in my head for several thrilling minutes (What? It was a slow day!) to see just what other fascinating and potentially soothing deductions I could muster. For some absurd reason, it dawned on me that both Jesus Christ and Karen Carpenter died at the age of 33. And Jesus was a carpenter. Hel-lo! My head is still spinning.

I expect those kindly people with the clean, white straitjacket to show up anyday now.

Posted by ayelet at November 22, 2004 02:29 PM