Years ago, I wrote a column about being a counter. I’m still nosy. And I am still afflicted with the counting compulsion – or for any useless factoids involving numbers.

I like to know how many people, how many years, how many dollars. There are oodles of useless information occupying space in my rapidly shrinking brain.

I like numbers. I think it began when I was a kid in church – I always had to know how many people were worshipping any given Sunday. I’m not sure why I needed to know at age 9. I still don’t know why today. But I became a counter.

I was not a math whiz in school. I excelled in geometry, and survived trigonometry. But calculus? Fuggedaboudit. I think the academically correct term is “crashed and burned.”

Fortunately, I wasn’t dreaming of a career as a rocket scientist. Looking back now though, I wonder if I shouldn’t have attempted statistics. If I’d only known at age 17 that statistician was a real job. Perfect for a fanatical counter like me.

When I was the Struthers Library Theatre director, I counted the number of patrons at every film we showed, usually in the dark. And after we staged a major celebrity show, I not only needed to know the house count, but I quickly figured out the percentage of tickets sold vs. our 933 seating capacity. I needed those numbers, not just for the evening’s profits, but for that little section of my head that needs to know and compare those factoids.

I count choirs. And then I count how many women vs. how many men. It’s usually twice as many women.

I quickly count the seats in any new restaurant. It always surprises me how many patrons a small room can comfortably hold. I love New York City restaurants because they post the maximum number of patrons allowed. This practice began with the fire department and became extra relevant during the COVID year.

When I’m lucky enough to attend a symphony performance, I must count how many players are on the stage and then the breakdown of the string section – particularly how many each of the violins, violas, cellos, and double basses.

These days I focus on the bass players, my grandson’s great big bicycle-sized instrument.

A few weeks ago, watching the Penn State football team leave the field at halftime, I was amazed by the sheer number of them. Naturally, I hopped onto the Nittany Lions website to count players, expecting maybe 50 or 60. I was gob-smacked to learn that the Penn State team carries 128 players on their roster! I was even more stunned to find out only 53 of them are from Pennsylvania! The other 75 are from 22 states plus the Congo and Australia.

My cousin’s grandson is one of three from Massachusetts on the special teams list. When I asked her why he chose State College, she said, “He really wanted to play for Penn State.” Fair enough.

I also really keep track of the mileage on my car. That smart little gizmo that computes the miles per gallon in real time has me driving differently … a good thing. On the highway, my small Honda SUV gets between 32 and 33 mpg. Naturally, around town it’s a lot less.

But on the hilly country roads, I can glide down their slopes rather than accelerate and watch my MPG increase. A silly little game, but it keeps me entertained.

I’m writing this in New York City — a phantasmagoria for a crazed counter. Restaurants and theater seats are the norm, but too much information is coming at this old brain — much too fast. HELP! I’m letting go until I return home. Well, maybe I can get back in the groove at the airport.

By the way, for those of you who read this on Thursdays, there are 335 days until Christmas.

Marcy O’Brien writes from Warren, Pa.