Numbers

Eight has been my favorite number since I was about that age. Maybe its curvy symmetry appealed to me. Or maybe because it becomes the symbol of infinity when it's on its side. Remember the opening credits for the old Ben Casey show, where a man draws on a blackboard the symbols for man, woman, birth, death, infinity.

I don't know for sure when I chose the number as my own. I do remember being seven or eight years old when my fingertip was torn by a door at the Jewish Community Center. I was taken to the emergency room, and the doctor told me that he would sew it up with "eight pretty blue stitches." I replied, "Eight is my favorite number, and blue is my favorite color. So that's fine." The novocaine shot, on the other hand, hurt like the blue blazes - and I nearly crushed the nurse's hand I was holding. But eventually the finger became numb, and all I noticed was tugging on the stitches.

I have no particular memories associated with the first three multiples of eight: 16, 24, 32. At age 40, though, I began the longest lasting and least complicated relationship of my life, so that was a good year.

I Just turned 64, which is eight squared, and I'm cautiously optimistic.