At first it was just height, like making sure the basketball hoop where I practice my windmill dunks sits at a relatively impressive twenty-four ribs, or pledging not to date anyone shorter than the national average of just over sixteen ribs tall. But lately I’ve started using ribs to measure everything. When I bought my truck I made the dealer pinky promise it had horsepower equivalent to two hundred fifty-six ribs. Convinced the DMV to state the age on my drivers license as just over two thousand ribs old. I even had my dietician make me a meal plan that ensures I get up to eighty ribs-worth of lean protein per day. My therapist tries to say this is somehow all about my mother. About childhood. About faith. But what does she know? Her office is barely two hundred square ribs in total leasable surface area. Besides, she still thinks you left just because your new boyfriend makes over two hundred thousand ribs per year. She still thinks you won’t come back.