喜歡計(jì)算生活中瑣事花費(fèi)的時(shí)間，喜歡通過(guò)計(jì)算和比較來(lái)督促自己，力圖達(dá)到生活的平衡，可是生活遠(yuǎn)非數(shù)學(xué)方程式那么簡(jiǎn)單。偶然一次，陪伴女兒時(shí)我忘記了時(shí)間。隨后，我開(kāi)始刻意不去計(jì)較時(shí)間。漸漸地，內(nèi)心的焦慮被平靜所取代……

By Helen Schulman

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I don’t count. That is, I don’t count stuff. I used to count stuff a lot: the number of French fries I stole off my husband’s plate at any given dinner and the amount of time I’d need to spend on the treadmill to make up for it the next day; the square footage of a friend’s apartment (its likely purchase price, my host’s presumed salary, and thus the difference between hers and mine); and, especially when my kids were babies, the minutes/hours between the time my husband said he would come home and rescue me and the actual moment when he sauntered through the door.[1] I counted in order to keep track of my deficiencies and accomplishments and then calculate the magic number that would help me reach a particular goal. I counted as a way of life. But for the most part I’ve stopped all that. And while I’m not a big believer in much of anything, I would say that not counting has saved my life.

As a preternaturally anxious person, perhaps I was born to tally.[2] I was also a committed dancer throughout my teens, and like a lot of people studying ballet, I counted the number of classes I took after school and on weekends. I berated[3] myself if I fell below six per week. I also counted fouetté turns and measured the height of my grands battements.[4]

But unlike many dance students, I allowed that rigid form of self-discipline to metastasize[5] to other areas of my life. I sadly counted calories—so automatically that, after a time, anytime food went in, a number instantly flashed in my mind. Once I went off to college, I counted the days until vacation, when I could see my boyfriend from high school again, thinking “25?, 25?, 25?” as I walked across the quad, sometimes even drawing half a line through the calendar back in my dorm room once it was one o’clock in the afternoon—pretty much the opposite of the then popular mantra “Be here now.”[6]

Occasionally this counting worked to my advantage. I calculated my GPA and counted my semesters on the dean’s list, using the numbers to spur me on to greater things.[7] But I sweated far too much if a grade fell below a certain standard, and thus keeping track devolved[8] into self-punishment. When my husband and I first set out to start a family, and had more than a few bumps in the beginning, I became a mathematician of self-torture.[9] Months gone by, years gone by. My friends with children, their children’s ages. My own age creeping upward.

Some time after my daughter was finally born, I realized I had to try to stop counting. Counting had become close to impossible at a time when I could barely manage simple tasks, like showering and sleeping and getting a newborn—or myself—dressed and out of the house. Moreover, life was getting gummed up by my perpetual equations: Was a gym membership worth it, I wondered, if I could get there only one day a week instead of my usual five?[10] If I didn’t write for four hours a day, was I abandoning my career as a novelist? (Even if I was now spending those four blessed hours with my beautiful child.) My attempts to quantify[11] everything weren’t serving me or my work or my baby.

One morning the tabulation[12] ceased, pretty much by accident. I had a babysitter coming, and I was going to get in my third day at the gym (as I said, I thought I needed five to stay in shape) and then write (because if I didn’t write at least four mornings a week, it might take longer to finish my book).

But that day the cherry blossoms were out. My family lives near Central Park, in Manhattan, and even on the side streets petals[13] were snowing in the fragrant breeze. Chocolate croissants beckoned from a bakery window.[14] My daughter was irresistible. So I canceled the sitter and I took her out. We sat under the trees. We snoozed a little, and when we roused ourselves, I realized I’d forgotten about the time.[15]

Not counting wasn’t easy. It took work, much work. The only way I can describe the art of not counting is that whenever the numbers pop up in my mind, I try to sweep them away, and when they turn out to be particularly reluctant to go away, I picture the anxiety they cause pouring out of my fingertips.[16] I now go to the gym when I can—some weeks more often than others—but I don’t count the classes I take or don’t take. I stopped counting the months and years between books, and when people ask me how long my last one took to write, I honestly don’t know. I don’t know what I weigh. I don’t remember who paid the bill the last time we went out with friends or how much it was. I don’t keep track of the Oscar-nominated films I need to see or the Pulitzer Prize–winning books I should read.[17] And I don’t tally the nights of takeout versus homemade anymore—although I admit it does make me cringe when I call my kids into dinner and my son says, “But I didn’t hear the doorbell.”[18]

I also don’t keep score of my achievements, or lack thereof, and if this makes me less competitive (I forget to apply for grants, for example), it also radically reduces my stress.

I no longer judge myself so frequently or harshly. I spend more of my time doing things than reflecting on what I have tackled already or, worse, angsting over what I have not yet done.[19] I’ve relinquished a little control for a little more serenity,[20] which has provided me with a daily emotional payoff.

I have to confess that on occasion I still do count things.

For instance, I am well aware that I am turning 50. Everyone who knows me or meets me in passing knows this, too. George, the liquor-store[21] man. The lady on line at the supermarket. Anyone who sits next to me at the theater.

I have no spiritual life, really, but not counting brings me as close to inner peace as an anxious urban modern mother living in the year 2011 can be. Which in my case is achieved through a simple mathematical equation: not counting = relief.

Vocabulary

1. treadmill: （健身用）踏車，跑步機(jī)；footage: （尤指店鋪等以平方英尺表示的）面積；saunter: 漫步，閑逛。

2. preternaturally: 不可思議地，異常地；tally: 記錄，計(jì)算。

3. berate: 痛斥，嚴(yán)責(zé)。

4. fouetté: 弗韋泰，指芭蕾舞中一腿抬起在空中急速劃圈的單腿轉(zhuǎn)；grands battements: 也作grand battement, 指芭蕾舞中的大踢腿動(dòng)作。

5. metastasize: 蔓延。

6. quad: （尤指中小學(xué)或大學(xué)中周圍有建筑物的）四方院子，四方廣場(chǎng)；mantra: 常重復(fù)的話，口號(hào)。

7. GPA: 全稱是grade point average，即平均分，美國(guó)的GPA滿分是4分；semester: 學(xué)期；dean: （大學(xué)的）學(xué)院院長(zhǎng)，系主任；spur: 刺激。

8. devolve: 下放給……，移交給……。

9. bump: 碰撞；self-torture: 自我折磨。

10. gum up: 〈口〉使出故障，搞糟，搞亂；perpetual: 連續(xù)不斷的；equation: 平衡狀態(tài)；gym: 體育館。

11. quantify: 測(cè)量，用數(shù)量表示。

12. tabulation: 制表，列表。

13. petal: 花瓣。

14. croissants: 羊角面包；beckon: 召喚。

15. snooze: 打盹，小睡；rouse: 弄醒，叫醒。

16. pop up: 突然出現(xiàn)；sweep away: 驅(qū)除，掃除；fingertip: 指尖，指端。

17. keep track of: 記錄； Oscar-nominated: 奧斯卡提名的；Pulitzer Prize: 普利策獎(jiǎng)，美國(guó)一年一度頒發(fā)給新聞、文學(xué)、戲劇和音樂(lè)方面優(yōu)秀作品之獎(jiǎng)。

18. takeout: 外賣食品；cringe: 畏縮，退縮。

19. reflect on: 沉思，考慮；tackle: 解決，應(yīng)付；angst: 焦慮，苦惱。

20. relinquish: 放棄，讓出；serenity: 寧?kù)o，平靜。

21. liquor-store: 賣酒的店鋪。

（來(lái)源：英語(yǔ)學(xué)習(xí)雜志 編輯：中國(guó)日?qǐng)?bào)網(wǎng)英語(yǔ)點(diǎn)津 陳丹妮）