June 5, 2002

I got my new morning philosophy out of a 1961 book called Better Physical Fitness for Boys: "When you wake up, get up; and when you get up, wake up." It took hitting the snooze twice to recall my new philosophy, but then I was up and awake just like that!

While I had enjoyed the many pictures of purposeful skinny 12-year-old boys with crew cuts working to broaden their chests and improve their grips, participating in a variety of wrestling variations ("HOW TO WORK OUT WITH A FRIEND"), and improving their physical fitness with the aid of ordinary objects ("HOW TO WORK OUT WITH A BROOM," "HOW TO WORK OUT WITH CHAIRS," "HOW TO WORK OUT WITH SANDBAGS," "HOW TO WORK OUT WITH BICYCLE TUBES"), I didn't hop out of bed and rush right into bicycle exercises, squats, or pushups, as the book recommended.

But then again, I am not, in fact, a boy. (There is such thing as Better Physical Fitness for Girls, 1964, the morning routine of which I might follow on a lark if I can hunt down a copy for cheap.)

Instead of brisk calisthenics, I did the grownup equivalent: I picked up the bathroom and the kitchen, finished my laundry, made some coffee, and walked the dogs.

I was surprised to find the bathroom took only 300 seconds and the kitchen, 500. It made me feel lazy for neglecting them. Speaking of seconds, I'm a chronic counter. Have I mentioned that? Rarely do I do anything without counting.

I think my mom started me counting as a way to make a game out of unpleasant tasks. Eat 3 more bites of overcooked peas, put away 10 toys. But I really got hooked on counting while reading From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler as a little kid. (I'm pretty sure obsessive counting wasn't a central message of the book, but that's what I went away with. That and wishing I could filch all the coins out of fountains.) A brother and sister had run away and were hiding in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Each night, they hid in a bathroom stall while the janitors finished up. The sister, who had a watch, decided they needed to wait 10 minutes before leaving the bathrooms. The brother didn't have a watch, so she told him to count to a thousand before he came out. I was slow learning to tell time, and I've never been able to wear a watch consistently, so something about that just clicked in my mind and I've been a counter ever since.

The beauty of my incessant counting--what keeps me from becoming truly obsessive-compulsive--is that, despite my constant practice, I am a terrible counter. I have counted everything for as long as I can remember, and I have always lost count. I think I subconsciously lose count on purpose, to trick myself into doing more. I plan to wash dishes for 300 seconds or put away 50 items, but if I lose count, I have to keep going until I reach the original number or finish the task. This little trick works better with counting seconds than items; I'm apt to give up on the 50 items after losing count two or three times, even if I'm only on 24.

Counting right now is an especially important lifestyle accessory. I've found that, since returning from vacation, I've had a rough time maintaining my focus and energy. Without a giant this or a miniature that to rush off to see, without struggling with the dogs or accommodations or the best route, my daily grind is inexpressibly long and boring. I consider it a triumph if I can resist napping several times a day.

To keep myself going, I'm already planning some little vacationesque weekend outings. My first order is to eat at all the famous barbecue joints in the vicinity, one a week. If I keep up my new a.m. philosophy, I can even get in a little sightseeing and small-town thrift shopping, ummmm. I should finish up by the end of the summer, just in time for my new fall hobby: high school plays!

That's not creepy, is it?

05.27.02