Some of the most creative stories I’ve ever hear come from the mouths of the accountants, financial controllers and investor relations experts that I’ve worked with. They know how to manipulate a spreadsheet to make the story change and the numbers shift like Houdini magic. It’s then “Game on” to see if the other financial whizz kids can spot what they have done and call them out on it.

Sitting in many conference rooms, interminable discussions occur where bright brained colleagues take financial data and shift emphasis to create a more positive performance interpretation.

This is not a gift I have been blessed with. Numbers are too absolute for me, too static. They line up and after the basics I get panicked or bored. I really, really wish I could interpret financial data creatively. As I learn by asking questions and doing, it’s going to require someone with bucketloads of patience and an infinite ability to make the complex simple to help me move beyond simple interpretation.

However, it’s not simple interpretation that I need today. The boxing instructor has a clever scales machine that I ask to use, given I’ve been studiously attending class 3 times a week for the past 6 weeks. I figure I can tip the scales in my favor especially when I had a minimal breakfast this morning.

She’s smiling. This is not me. 

Eagerly, I place my bare feet square on the mental pads and firmly grasp the attached T-bar contraption which holds the data screen. Almost immediately it starts to spew out a wealth of data about the state of my body which I neither recognise or agree with. Made worse by the boxing instructor repeating the information out out loud thereby broadcasting my shame. He repeats the one piece of good information – my visceral fat rate is only 7% which apparently means I’m not carrying a lot of fat around my internal organs. Bless him, he can see I’m trying to process these results as I head straight into the denial portion of the charge curve.

To my eternal shame, I start cajoling the larger lady of our boxing class to be brave enough to stand on the scales in a desperate bid to feel better about my sturdy square little body. Sensibly she refuses and keeps her trainers firmly laced.

Try as I might, I can’t get creative about the story that aligns with these numbers. I have beasted my body over these past weeks, I know if effort could melt fat, I’d be on my way to being a slip of a thing again. If only it were that simple and I was twenty years old again, this wouldn’t even be a topic of note. However, back in the real world where metabolism slows, the remaining bit of thyroid needs checking, the evening G&T’s need curbing and the desire for sweet things needs to be more carefully controlled, I am left with the stark reminder that no matter how I look at these numbers they can’t be massaged into shape.

The stark reminder is I need to consume less, exercise even more and get down to the serious recognition that true performance only comes with hard work, perseverance and determination. Given time and consistency real change will happen. I have the faith.

After all the real numbers don’t lie.