Numbers

Last month while traveling in Paris with my cousin from India, she randomly asked my friend the big taboo question: “how old are you?” I tried to tell my cousin – who was clearly naïve and unaware of the American social stigma behind that simple question – “you don’t ask that.” But my friend answered anyway, a bit hesitantly and a bit unabashedly: “forty.”

But admittedly, even as I was giving my cousin a disapproving look for asking such a question, I wondered why it was such a no-no in the first place. Perhaps it has something to do with the stark reality behind numbers. Age, weight, salary, number of sexual partners… it’s all so bare bones. Numbers lack stories… and emotions… and dramatic climaxes to those aforementioned stories. Forty. That was all she said. It didn’t even nearly explain the joys and tears she had experienced in those four decades, because numbers don’t tell stories.

Last week I was asked another dreaded question, “Where do you see yourself five years from now?” Had this been a question on Who Wants To Be a Millionaire, I would’ve surely used a lifeline to answer it – perhaps polled the audience, because their guess would have been as good as mine. I answered it as candidly as I could and said, “I don’t know.” Had someone (and I’m sure someone did) asked me this question four years ago, would I have painted the life I’m living now? Most probably not. Four years ago, my dreams, morals, and perceptions were different. Four years ago, I entered the corporate world bright eyed and bushy tailed, eager to apply my B.S. degree in Marketing to the company formerly known as Merrill Lynch. Four years ago, I was dating a guy I once imagined spending the rest of my life with. But that was four years ago.

Much like its prefix, numbers are numb – they lack feelings and sensation. They’re like candles without its flame on a birthday cake – you can count them but can’t feel their warmth until they’re lit.