I’ve always liked the expression “age is just a number,” and I genuinely believe it.
I’m having more fun as I get older, largely because I’ve accumulated more hobbies, more interests, and more groups of people I love spending time with.
But as I added another candle to the proverbial birthday cake last week, I started thinking about numbers, and how much meaning we attach to them.
I’ve recently become mildly obsessed with a number I had never thought about in my entire life:
My golf handicap.
There was a time when I couldn’t have told you what a golf handicap was, and I didn’t even have one until last year.
And now, depending on what happened on the golf course that day, I have been known to think about it far more than any reasonable person should.
And somewhere along the way, I realized something:
It’s just a number.
And that got me thinking about how often “numbers” affect our mood.
We stare at our bank accounts and hope the number goes up.
We step on the scale and hope the number goes down.
We count steps.
Followers.
Likes.
Hours worked.
Calories counted.
Test scores.
Sales recorded.
Don’t get me wrong. Numbers are useful.
We need to know if we can pay our bills.
We need to monitor our health.
We need a way to know whether our efforts are producing results.
But somewhere along the way, we can go from using numbers as data to using them as judgment.
The number tells us something about a particular circumstance.
And then we decide it tells us something about ourselves.
“My bank account says I’m doing well.”
“My weight says I’m failing.”
“My golf handicap says I’m getting better.” Or not. 🙁
“The number of Instagram followers I have says I’m popular.”
“My salary says I’m behind.”
“My age says I’m getting old.”
Except the number didn’t actually say any of those things.
We did.
And that’s where it gets interesting.
Because numbers are relative.
A salary that feels like a fortune to one person might feel inadequate to someone else.
A particular number on the scale can represent success to one person and disappointment to another.
The number hasn’t changed. Often, the number itself isn’t what is causing the distress.
The comparison has.
We are wired to compare.
For most of human history, knowing where we stood relative to the people around us probably mattered. Who had food? Who had shelter? Who was strong? Who was vulnerable? Who had resources?
Survival of the fittest wasn’t exactly a metaphor.
But most of us aren’t competing for survival anymore.
And our brains haven’t necessarily gotten the memo.
The problem is when we begin to believe these numbers tell us something about our self-worth.
Because they don’t.
Your weight is a measurement of your relationship to gravity on Earth. (On the moon, we would all weigh one-sixth as much.)
Money is a system we created to assign value and facilitate exchange.
These numbers can be useful.
But they aren’t inherent truths about us.
They are measurements.
We are the ones who turn them into meaning, and sometimes weaponize them against ourselves.
A number can tell you where you are.
It cannot tell you who you are.
So I’m going to get back out on the course and try to enjoy the game.
Even if my handicap has other plans.
Happy Wednesday!
Jackie
