theicingonthecrazycake

When life hands you lemons, toss them in the trash and eat cake

Counting

We count. We are human and we can’t help ourselves.

We count calories. We count pounds gained and lost. We count our ages and birthdays past and future, freckles and wrinkles and sprouting gray hairs. We count the growing acreage of cellulite on our asses and thighs.

We count the hours we’ve slept, or not slept. We count out pills and vitamins each morning, we count the hours until daylight or dusk. We count out change to the cashier. We count out strangers based on first impressions, because their looks, education, speech and/or color don’t match our expectations.

We, needy humans that we are, tend to count on each other more than we count on ourselves. We can count on sometimes having only ourselves on whom to rely. We can count on feeling alone. We can count on the fact that no one person can fill every void in our souls and psyches.

We count transgressions against us, but sometimes, we don’t count the number of grudges we hold. We count the number of dollars in our bank accounts, and sometimes – well, oftentimes — we unfairly compare ourselves to people with higher pay and bigger houses. Which, count on it, only makes us feel like shit.

We count through the seasons, the days until Thanksgiving or Christmas or that three-day weekend. We count the number of vacation days we have, but we rarely count the number of vacation days we’ve already used and what we did, because we are too preoccupied with counting off the days until the next one.

We count our inadequacies, but do we use the same arithmetic to count our talents and good deeds? We count out people who, in our eyes have fucked up or screwed us over, but do we count the number of those people who eventually rise from the ashes?

We count the ex-lovers, the mistakes and the losses, the number of friends and lovers we’ve left behind (or left us behind) and the enemies we’ve gained. We count the days since the expiration date on those relationships, and count the days until we’re “supposed” to feel better about it all. But how often do we count the friends we do have, the lovers who have taught us so much? The love we gain and give back to the universe? The blessings bestowed upon us?

Counting will make you miserable. You see, we don’t count the days until our death, the number of breaths we have left, because we can’t. If we’re too busy counting anything and everything – counting the roses instead of stopping to smell them – it’s literally impossible to live in the simple arithmetic of now.

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