What counts.

It was my impulse to measure my worth against imaginary stacks —steps, calories, words-written, and (dare I say) subscribers. Then James Taylor took the stage...

Aug 01, 2024

Amid Life is a home for self-discovery and new beginnings written for and by resilient, rebellious, reinventing women. I hope you’ll consider becoming a paid subscriber to support this work and join this growing and connected community.

Felix and I sit in the shade of a sweeping white oak tree on a green lawn overlooking the Berkshire Hills with 18,000 other people. Three days before my 62^nd birthday, I’m here to check a bucket-list item: See James Taylor at Tanglewood, a bucolic summer venue in Lenox, Massachusetts.

Under the pink glow of a setting sun, lawn concert veterans drink chilled white wine from stemmed glasses, set places on portable tables with French linens, and dine from casually abundant picnic baskets that Ina Garten herself might have packed.

silver candelabra and champagne glasses for a picnic — source: Boston Magazine (Tanglewood sponsored content)

We drove 215 miles and arrived four hours early to secure a prime spot for our camp chairs, but planning for our dîner sur l’herbe went as far as putting ice in a cooler. While sun-dressed hostesses light candles and Prosecco corks pop, we drink beer from cans and eat snack bar sandwiches ($49 for two).

It’s my impulse to count time, people, and money—to measure my value against imaginary stacks. Amidst delectable deli assortments on adjacent blankets, I feel shame spread along my spine like a tapenade on a too-thin cracker. I could have, should have, brought from home a fresh tomato and feta salad, sliced roasted chicken, and Ina’s famous lemon cake. But I didn’t.

My usual deep well of ambitious endeavoring had run dry—tested during the pandemic, stressed by global, social, political, physical, and personal upheavals, and lately drained to its last drop step by step, calorie by calorie, word by word, and (dare I say?) subscriber by subscriber.

All this counting is bumming me out.

In January, I downloaded a fitness app. Some 69% of adults capture health-related data, and I can’t speak to their intent, but when I say “fitness,” I mean diet. I want you to think my goal is health rather than body image. It isn’t. I entered my weight loss goal: 20 lbs.

For six months, I logged every meal ingredient, drink, and snack, weighed myself daily, tracked ounces of water consumed, tallied miles and reps. Is it working? Yes. Is that my point? No.

I’m a 62-year-old woman who wants the clothes in her closet to fit and maybe for her hips and knees not to ache as much. But I’m also still (STILL!) that 22/32/42/52-year-old who can’t look in the mirror (or at a selfie) without comparing herself to the Photoshopped magazine covers she read in the 90s and today’s filtered online photos—tabulating every flaw.

What is counting but a form of comparison, a way to judge ourselves against the recommendations, norms, preferences, and reported success of others? Whether quantifiable or anecdotal, data in service to an arbitrary goal helps assure me that I am good, or better—WINNING! On the flip side, data confirms the image I see in the mirror—NOT ENOUGH!

“Focusing on metrics … can encourage perfectionist “all-or-nothing” mindsets,” according to a study by doctors at Brigham Young University. Hear me when I tell you: the last thing my perfectionist mindset needs is encouragement.

🎵 Every now and then the things I lean on lose their meaning. And I find myself careening ….

The lawn crackles with applause. Lights come up on the stage. The incomparable JT is somewhere in the distance, real as can be, but from our spot on the lawn, I can only see his projected image on a video screen. I close my eyes and immerse myself in the velvet music and the soft evening air.

Try as I might, more comparisons float through my mind like clouds blocking the moon.

We’re well into the short summer season and haven’t ordered our firewood, meaning we don’t measure up to the locals who have theirs stacked by now. Meaning (not really, but also maybe), the neighbors will scoff, “flatlanders.”

Fifteen days until vacation, when we can “leave this troubled world behind,” and maybe I’ll stop thinking about the number of days since I’ve meaningfully added to my memoir’s word count—43.

How many calories are in this overpriced sandwich? I remind myself to log my dinner in the app, knowing I won’t.

Compare. Reach. Commit. It’s so exhausting.

The promise of data is insight. No, it’s not.

If I had a nickel for every time I wrote that phrase in my tech marketing career, I could have hired Ina Garten to cater our evening meal….

Faster cars, safer buildings, lower costs, sure—measure every component—but for personal insight, data is merely a momentary reflection of one tiny piece of our complex and broken human puzzle.

I recently learned, via my “fitness” app, that a cup of pistachios has 691 calories and 16 ounces of a good Vermont IPA over 300. But the knowledge was not insightful. I did not gain a deeper understanding of myself, and the app didn’t consider the multi-faceted impact of this snack choice on my body and soul—my happiness. The facts just made me feel shitty.

@Eliza Butler captured this feeling perfectly in her illuminating post about wearables. She writes:

“Each time I began wearing a fitness tracker, there was excitement and hope. In a way, each wearable promised a deeper connection to my body; a way to know things about my body that weren’t accessible to me otherwise. A way to change the relationship to my body with cold hard data and metrics.
Yet in reality, these wearables always ended up being gateway drugs into more disconnection, the burnout cycle, a need for control, and self-hatred/judgment.

During intermission, I navigate through the maze of Hudson Bay blankets and spot an old friend.

“Oh my God,” Ginger said, meeting me for a tight embrace.

“I knew I’d see you tonight,” I said. Though it had been 16 years since we’d worked together, I thought of Ginger somewhere along Route 7 in the Hudson River Valley.

In my mind’s eye, I saw her with her family on the Tanglewood lawn. The image came to me as intuition—a deep and clear knowing—that she would be there.

🎵 The secret of life is enjoying the passage of time…

I tell Ginger how I’ve watched (via Facebook) her successful career with a mix of admiration and pride. “You are smarter and more ambitious than I ever was,” I say, revealing my old impulse to count rungs and betraying a sense of failure I’ve not yet entirely banished since jumping off the corporate ladder.

We hug and clutch hands and catch up—time passed, goals reached, and weight gained or lost doesn’t factor into our shared joy.

My friend and I promise, as people do, to keep in touch—and maybe we will. Or, maybe it will be another 16 years or longer—no need to count.

I’ll keep sporadically using my “fitness” app until the subscription expires. I’m more convinced than ever that the data doesn’t matter nearly as much as intuition. Still, I’m not immune to the dopamine rush of hitting the daily numbers.

Data is the opposite of intuition and meaningless in terms of meaningful human connection. The weights and measures that make life “a lovely ride” are simply not quantifiable.

The clouds clear as James segues between Carol King classics, and the counting in my head shifts on a fresh breeze.

James is 76, and his voice, smooth as cream, should soothe any troubled soul in these troubled times.

Next month, Felix and I will celebrate 17 years together, climbing and gliding as James sings, “Love is the only road.”

And a lovely long-lost friend I’ve known for 30 years appears when I most needed a reminder that fancy picnics and numbers (whether on a scale, line chart, or the bottom of my word document) are not what counts.

🎵 Ain’t it good to know you’ve got a friend…

Thank you for reading. Now tell me, what are you counting?

Amid Life with Catherine Palmer

Discussion about this post