Safety In Numbers

So I was sitting at my desk at work today, debating whether I would go for a nice relaxed walk later after supper (the weather is unseasonably nice) or whether I would go to the gym and hop on a bike for a measurable amount of time.

Who are we kidding? There was no debate, really.

Too bad I went for a small walk at lunch, yet couldn’t wait to get to the gym tonight and pedal away my frustrations with work, with family, with life. Every second of every day I have to work at silencing that internal debate, and sometimes I feel either way I lose.

But I needed that reassurance of something concrete, of something showing me that for 40 minutes I pedaled a bike and literally got nowhere (except halfway through the new Every Day with Rachael Ray.) In fact, it probably sent me backwards.

But it gets tricky when numbers are involved, doesn’t it?

Even if I don’t place a lot of concrete value on those numbers—it can be weight or calories, money or time—they can all be measured, they can all be compared and they can all be manipulated to mean whatever you want them to mean.

By keeping score, I know if I didn’t exercise as much today as yesterday, if I ate more today than I planned, if I spent too much time on the blogs.  I have been pushing myself, challenging numbers, but in all the wrong ways. It’s like I’m addicted to self-defeat.

On one hand, I know exactly what I need to do to change things, yet I don’t  push myself in that direction of healthy discomfort.

On the other hand, I  know exactly the minimum number of calories or minutes of exercise I need to stay exactly where I am—teetering on the rope of almost-trying and comfortable discomfort.

I am not a stupid woman, so why would I think that eating less than that amount or exercising more than I should would be even remotely acceptable?

It’s those damn numbers.

I like to know, even if I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t. I can manipulate them to feel proud for all the wrong reasons or use them as a way to stay strong. I can manipulate them to drag myself down or use them to pick myself up.

I use the clock to eat my meals all day, each neatly measured out. I use the time to judge my workouts, each day a minute more. I use my weight to keep me safe from pain, but yet it tears me down.

It’s those damn numbers.

The internal debate rages on, “life” chaotically rages along around me and I find myself turning to food even more—on blogs, on Web sites, on TV—to serve as a distraction. It takes my mind away from something I don’t know how to deal with to something more concrete, something I can see, something I could enjoy if I would only let myself.

If I would only let go of the numbers—time, calories, measurements—all judgments I tend to misuse.

I know this about myself, so day by day, my goal is to try and release the hold that I place on these numbers that really mean nothing at all (does a measured cup of rice really taste different than an unmeasured cup of rice?) By releasing a bit of that hold, I hope to reclaim a bit more of the intuition and strength that I’ve buried.

A gentle walk, a yoga class, an unmeasured amount at a meal—I aim to embrace them as equally worthy of my time and attention, if not more so than the value I place on an arbitrary number.

I wanted to go for a walk.