Mathematics

I’m going steady with the number 18.

It began on the adolescent sentimentality (read: unhealthy obsession) of a first kiss occurring on the 18^th of February, 1994. From that moment on, I noticed when other monumental (read: overly-analyzed) events transpired on the 18^th of the month.

Eighteen became a comfort. Eighteen became my lucky charm. Eighteen became my number.

Now, I notice it everywhere. And now, it’s no longer attached to a kiss.

I’m also hot for 9. Because 1+8=9. And, like the musical preference of a love interest, I’ll latch on to any association with 18.

For mathematical reasons, for superstitious reasons, this year is special.

Let me explain…

I turned 36. 3+6=9.

It’s the year 2016. 2+0+1+6=9.

And, in conclusion, 9+9=18.

See what I mean? Good things, great things, will transpire.

I know, I write nonsense. I acknowledge my quirk. I recognize I am ridiculous. But, I still believe.

Because of 18, I label this the year of change and impulse and travel and music. (The change and impulse parts are intentional. The travel and music are patterns that simply came to be.)

Speaking of quirks, let’s talk letters.

I recently confessed to a new friend an item of information I have never told another soul. I recite the alphabet as I step – up stairs, down stairs, across rooms, along streets. Not with every step, mind you. Only some. Many. The important ones. Towards meaningful moments. Or when I need to distract my mind from its anxieties.

Nine steps to the letter I. Eighteen steps to the letter R.

Or one step to A, eight steps to H.

I.R. or A.H.

Actually, the results are endless, once my mathematical (crazy) brain begins its summations.

My younger, dreamier, romantic self would have deemed these resulting initials as my future forever someone. Today, I know better than to entertain such inane notions. I mean, isn’t reciting the alphabet preposterous enough, Rain Woman?

This is my neurosis. My tick. One (two) of them. Like talking to yourself. I do that too. All the time. More often as I age. Don’t you?

The happier I am, or the deeper the night stretches, the more my mouth speaks. When alone. To me.

I hum and I sing too. While I walk or run. In public. Under my breath. Can you hear me? Sing along.

While we’re on the subject of the weird and the wonderful, the elements that make us who we are, I have another confession.

Q-Tips.

The sensation of a Q-Tip in my ear is a daily addiction. I’m serious. Not alcohol, not drugs, not sex. Or anything else linked with rock ‘n’ roll. My deadliest vice is cotton wrapped around a stick.

I’m hopscotching thoughts. From square to square, box to box. From 1 to 9, naturally. I hope you followed this far.<