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Data Is the Worst
If you don’t check your bank account, you won’t see how low it is and won’t
feel bad. So the solution to feeling good is to ignore your bank account. And the
scale. And your doctor. And your crazy-crowded-with-junk garage. And the
issues in your marriage.
As we said earlier, perfectionism is a desperate attempt to live up to

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As we said earlier, perfectionism is a desperate attempt to live up to
impossible standards. Perfectionism will do anything to protect those impossible
standards. It can’t let you find out how impossible they are, especially with the
cold eye of data, so it terrifies you into thinking that you’ll be crushed by
disappointment if you peer behind that curtain.
Data would tell you that your bank account is low, but you’re spending a lot
more on coffee than you think. If you started making it at home, you could easily
start saving for a vacation. You might even stop comparing yourself to the
impossible financial standards of your friends online. You might make some
reasonable goals and completely change the way you view money. You might
even have fun.
Perfectionism hated that entire paragraph.
Better to tell you that if you step on the scale, you’ll be crushed by the
weight you’ve gained instead of admitting a little data received, but not obsessed
on, goes a long way toward changing things. Perfectionism would much rather
you have some crazy magazine-cover body as your goal. I love when the picture
is a six foot two model and a headline that says, “
HOW I GOT THIS BODY
!” The
article never mentions, “Well, my parents are both six foot three and I have to
admit that helped with the whole long leg thing, but maybe you should do more
squats.”
Data would tell us the truth and perfectionism can’t stand the truth. That’s
why we hate data, because for years perfectionism has demonized it.
I can’t stand it. I would rather ignore it. I’d rather speed my way down a
highway that might contain a bridge that is out instead of actually deal with what
data is trying to tell me.
Data is not fun. Data is not sexy. Data is not my friend.
Or so I thought and so most of us think.
It’s way more enjoyable to ignore it and feign surprise at where our lives
take us than it is to be deliberate about listening to the data and responding
appropriately. Even that word “appropriately” feels boring.
A lot of our problems in life are self-inflicted and not mysteries. If you
smoke, you have a much greater chance of getting lung cancer. If you spend all
your time at work on Facebook, you’re probably not going to get a promotion. If
you eat Taco Bell multiple times a week, all the running in the world won’t help.
That last one stings a bit. Have you ever ordered so much Taco Bell that the
sack it’s in set off the seat belt alarm when placed next to you in the car? That’s
probably a sign I should not ignore, but I can’t help myself when I go to that
restaurant. It’s the only fast-food place where I get confused by the menu and
order multiple items. I don’t make that mistake at McDonald’s. I never say, “I’ll

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order multiple items. I don’t make that mistake at McDonald’s. I never say, “I’ll
have a quarter pounder with cheese and a side of Big Mac!” But at Taco Bell, all
bets are off as I traipse through that à la carte menu gathering items like a Tex-
Mex snowball rolling down a seven-layer burrito hill.
So upon plopping down the bag one day in the passenger seat—nobody puts
baby in the corner—the alarm started chirping. “Careful, something heavy
enough to be considered a human is now in the seat. Please buckle it in.”
I laughed at my rental Kia Soul. You can’t judge me, Kia Soul. You don’t
even know me!
Data had whispered and I had a choice in that moment to listen to it or
ignore it.
By ignoring it, I’d gain a few pounds, feel bad about myself, wear Spanx on
stage at speaking events (for my posture, of course, not my belly), and then
eventually come up with some impossible health goal. Cue black beans and
perfectionism!
You have the same choice to listen to data, too. A hundred times a day, it is
trying to tell you something. We assume it is trying to ruin our fun; we believe
that data is the ultimate killjoy.
I remember the first time I saw a restaurant menu that had the calories listed
on it. I was in New York City with a large group of people attending a
conference. We opened the menus with such vigor and excitement. We were on
a pseudo vacation. We were going to eat bold food in a bold city!
A hush immediately fell over our group when we saw the calories next to
each entrée. We all changed our orders. Monstrous cheeseburgers, the kind they
just jam a knife directly into the top of because you’ll need it to slay that beast,
became salads. Sad salads, with thin pale strips of grilled chicken, dressing on
the side.
What’s your weakest dressing? Not Hidden Valley. What are they hiding? I
bet it’s calories. Please give me your thinnest vinaigrette, one step up from light
brown water, please.
Data doomed us in that moment.
It wasn’t the restaurant’s fault. They didn’t want to list the calories; they
were forced by law to put them on there. Nothing kills your appetizer and dessert
sales like telling someone the obvious—bacon-jalapeño-loaded cheese fries are
not healthy. Any dessert that has the word “molten” in it is probably not fat free.
Data, you’re the worst.
Why do you hate us so?
Only, what if it doesn’t?

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Only, what if it doesn’t?
What if we’ve been looking at data the wrong way all these years?
What if data wasn’t trying to ruin your day; it was trying to save your life?
What if gathering even a little data could make a huge difference in your
ability to knock out your goals?
What if data was one of the best ways to kill perfectionism?