The Number

If you follow the show Lost, even slightly, you know there’s a current debacle involving a series of mysterious numbers. Chat rooms are all aflutter with theories and hypotheses and screen shots from the show that are analyzed and re-analyzed. Serious Lost fans are obsessed with these numbers and what they might mean. How these numbers might affect the characters and their outcome. And even though I love the show Lost, it’s a different series of numbers that I obsess about.

Now that I’m 31 (Can you hear the echo…31…31…31…) I no longer obsess about turning 30. There’s a new number that haunts my dreams. A number that shouts its defiance in a loud, mocking tone that sends shivers down my spine. And like the crash survivors and their deviant digits, The Number shows itself at the exact moment I’ve almost forgotten about it.

My Number? My debt.

I think about it every day. The Number. I think about how and when I can pay it off. How it got here in the first place. How I can mask it or avoid it or burn it at the stake. I think about The Number when I buy groceries and when I pump gas. When I watch TV and when I pop my Pop-Tarts. My number makes me grouchy and irritable. And poor.

Even though I know it’s not entirely true, there are large parts of me that believe getting rid of The Number would fill my life with infinite and permanent bliss. That I would suddenly be the perfect weight and have straight teeth and shiny hair that’s constantly blowing in a cool breeze. The perfect, glittery Number-free life.

The Number could also be how many pounds you want to lose, feeling sure that life will be perfect if you just lose 12 more pounds. Or The Number is years of school left until the doctorate is earned. Or miles on the odometer before the car finally dies. Or doses left until you’re well again. Or weeks left before giving birth.

So. What’s The Number for you? And what will happen if you achieve it?