A Confession in Numbers

I am 37 years old. I am 5 feet 5 inches tall. I weigh 159 pounds. I wear a size 36 AA bra. My pant size ranges from a 10 to a 12.

These are numbers that so many people don’t share — at least in full honesty. Some lie about their age or are too embarrassed to admit it. Many lie about their weight, and we’d probably be surprised how many people stretch the truth a bit on their height.

I decided I am going to break the taboo and share my numbers here … publicly … for anyone to see. And guess what … I have not been sucked down into a pit of shame for doing so. To me, they are just numbers. There is no value or meaning behind them. They are a numerical representation of particular facts pertaining to me. But I have not always felt this way.

When I was in my teens and early twenties, I always looked much younger than my age. When I was 17, I was offered a children’s menu at a restaurant. When I was 19, people would ask me what grade (in high school) I was in. When I was 25 people would inquire about my major (when I had completed my degree 4 years prior). For the most part, I was annoyed because if people thought I was younger, they also treated me that way, condescending to me, or at least that’s what I thought. But I also felt mature for my age, and was threatened if people undermined that feeling by assuming I was younger (a clear indication I still had some growing up to do). Of course, as I got older, the tables began to turn, and as the number of times I got carded had an inverse relationship with the number of gray hairs I found, I began to fear aging a little more.

My height, though less of an issue was also something I was insecure about. For most of my young adult life, I was 5 feet, 3 and 3/4 inches. Of course, it was natural to round up, but I hated the idea of being short. That probably stemmed from the fact that my short stature was accompanied by a more rounded shape. Which brings me to the next number: my weight.

Until pretty recently in my life, my weight — whether I knew exactly what it was, or shied away from that knowledge in the pursuit of blissful ignorance — had an enormous impact on my mood. If I woke up feeling great, and stepped on the scale only to find an unexpectedly high number, my mood was instantly deflated, and I might stay depressed for days. The opposite also held true, however, and a low number could add a note of joy to my day. The same could be said for the times I went into a dressing room and tried on an item of clothing. If I tried on my usual size and it was too big, I was overjoyed. If the size I picked out was too tight, I was devastated. Never mind that there are so many factors in what goes behind that number on the tag ranging from cost of fabric to clever marketing.

As for my bra size, well, in this breast-obsessed culture, it can be just as hard to accept small breasts as it can to accept a larger stomach (and even more difficult if you have both!). I sometimes felt humiliated going into Victoria’s Secret and not being able to find a single bra that fit my less endowed chest.

But allowing any of these numbers to have a such an impact on our outlook in life can be so hindering, or worse, damaging. Through a lot of work, I have learned to embrace each of these numbers (though oddly enough, I now measure at 5′5″ — perhaps due to a higher self esteem and better posture??) no matter what they are. I do not fear my age, but embrace the wisdom and experience that has come with each year I have passed.

I do not fear the number on the scale. Learning how to see each of these numbers for what they are has been liberating for me, and I have to say has led me to a more peaceful place in life since I know longer devote the majority of my effort resisting them — mostly the one on the scale.

So, what are your numbers?