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No, the world isn't coming to an end - just my counting the days since the breakup.

Per the title of my last post, I've begun to lose track of how long it's been since Ex broke my heart. A quick glance at the bottom-right corner of my computer screen reminds me that I'm closing in on two months, but when exactly will this anniversary take place? Does the date of our dissolution remain constant from month to month, or does it change based on the 28 days of February as opposed to the 31 days of January and December? Clearly I've never had much facility for counting. Besides, even if I could keep track of the dates, I'd rather not know the exact number, if only to prevent myself from quoting it in everyday conversation. (There's nothing like quoting an exact number - 29 days, 47.5 days - to elicit worrisome stares from friends and acquaintances as they ask how you're doing.)

I've never been good with numbers, yet I've always been counting. As a child, I counted the number of times I turned off my Atari, shut my door, nudged a particular book or object into place, and brushed a finger or elbow against another part of my body. My purpose was to make whatever numbers add up to multiples of three. When I turned off my Atari, I would flick the "on/off" switch three times, counting each flick aloud. If those flicks didn't "feel good," I would flick the switch three more times, this time more sharply, as I counted to 6. If the three additional counts didn't settle my nerves, I would continue up to nine, sometimes twelve, as I flicked the switch or opened and shut the door or tapped my arm beneath the elbow. Only in cases of extreme anxiety would I start over from 1. To properly reset a sequence, I would slap myself - usually on the arm, sometimes across the face - then start again from the top.

My parents bore witness to this and other of my obsessive-compulsive rituals. Years later, when I was in my mid-20s, my dad would express doubts about my need for psychopharmaceuticals, even as he freely admitted I'd always been rather "tightly wound." The medications dulled my compulsion for numbers as well as my larger need for control, but every so often I still catch myself counting - for example, in the titles of these posts.

Here, then, is the end of days. No more counting the passage of time in relation to Ex.

This week has been all about snipping off loose ends. I deleted Ex's presets from my car radio. I cleared his saved games and high scores from my Wii. I purchased four shelves from CB2, attached them to a wall, and loaded them up with the contents of my two remaining boxes. I had a man in my bedroom last night. Each day I grow a little more comfortable with the man who glances back at me from the other side of the mirror. He's no Photoshopped underwear model, but he may well be on the way to realizing he doesn't have to be. He's even entitled to a bit of a counting fetish, but from now on he'll channel it towards more useful endeavors, such as ensuring the alarm clock is set for the correct time or the front door is locked.

No more counting on or after the man - and the myth - of the past.