Quack

In a row.

Ah, that's better.

The next adventure––a real trip with an ocean to cross and unfamiliar coins and electrical outlets on the other side––is finally on the books. Booked, that is. Which is not the same as "one for the books." That remains to be seen. Now I can look forward to it instead of planning for it.

Today's, and yesterday's, Pilates classes were hard. Puzzlingly so. I felt awkward and un-limber doing the moves (not that they're always the same; they aren't, even when it's the same instructor), not leaner and flexier. And my heart pumped harder than usual, and sweat poured off me. These are normally good things when one exercises, I guess, but I don't know why it should happen now, and not when I first started Pilates, out in L.A. But maybe it means I'm working harder now, because I'm capable of working harder. I don't know.

It's hard to know you've made progress when you don't have a real measurement to go by. This may qualify as stating the painfully obvious, but I remember when I was actually taught this concept––it was in a grad school class about research methodology (or some such).

I told you I was a show-off.

I remember having a sort of duh-ha moment (that's like a-ha, except what you've just realized is so obvious that you feel dumb realizing it), and I still think back to that class as the source of this knowledge:

If you want to know if your innovation is effective, or if you want to find out if one technique for accomplishing X is better than another, or if you simply want to know if you've reached a goal––done the thing you set out to do––, the only way to know for sure is to figure out how to measure the result you're seeking, decide what the threshold will be for considering that you've achieved it, and come up with a test to see if that threshold has been reached.
(Disclaimer: This may not, in fact, be an accurate description of any kind of accepted research methodology. It's been a long freaking time since grad school, OK?  This is how it remains in my mind, and for the purposes of my analogy, it'll work just fine.)

So, I can't know if I'm doing better at Pilates––not really––unless I decide that "success" (a loaded word, I know) will be measured by how long I can hold a plank, or how far I can reach toward my toes, or how tall I end up after 30 sessions.

Yes, of course, the process is worthwhile––focus on the journey, not the destination, etc.––fine. Absolutely.
But if you really have no destination in mind, then. . . um. . . am I right?

We had a (terrible) financial advisor years and years ago who analogized that it makes no sense to seek guidance by just asking "Which way do I go?" You have to first answer the question, "Where are you trying to go?" He was no zen master, that's for sure, but that left an impression on me, too.

And then there's this:

I don't think this is relevant. I just have a fondness for Mary Engelbreit.

Taking it one step further––which is where I usually like to take things––beyond Pilates, beyond blood sugar levels, or bone density, or weight loss––to the big picture, the premise for this whole "stretching" thing:

I seem to be asking "Which way do I go?" But I think I have to answer the zen question first.

Or else how can I ever know if I got there?

Heavy, right?

Now look at these:

The title was left off. It's "DON'T LOOK BACK!"
If you can't read the sign on the right, it says "No longer an option." Ouch!

An old favorite. Right, Em?

Kitsch? NOOO! They're inspiring AND adorable.

A man, a plan, a canal, a nap: Panalanaca

Plans are getting in the way of my plans.

Remember those 100 days of summer––the ones that spread before me as far as the eye could see, like a peaceful, dewy meadow? Like an all-you-can eat buffet? Like a mixed metaphor?

We're 26 days into June, which leaves me with. . . 100 minus 26, borrow one from the tens column, four, leaving nine minus two is seven. . . 74 days of summer left.

My Bridget Jones–style accounting of the Summer of Four Things would be as follows:

Books read: 2 (one of them being Bossypants, which was thoroughly delightful and consistently funny, but more like reading a very long, very entertaining magazine article than what I think of as a Neptune-sticker-worthy book. No offense.)

Writing accomplished: You're lookin' at it.

Cartons emptied: 1, the contents of which didn't get re-distributed, just unloaded into another half-full carton.

Exercise performed: The only satisfactory category. I've continued to take three Pilates classes a week since the beginning of June. Am I getting stronger, longer, bendier? Well, I've completed 13 sessions/classes so far. Remember it supposedly takes 30 to make a visible difference, so, the jury's still out. And they've ordered dinner.

What I've spent more than a reasonable amount of time doing: Making plans.

They're not complicated plans. They're not preparing-for-the-2012-London-Olympics–type plans.

Ill-conceived? 

They're mostly for small trips, and one slightly bigger one, which seems to be taking all my managerial skills to put into motion. The alternative might be to try to wing it, as it were, and NOT make plans––just see where the road takes us, but this is less my style now than it might have been thirty years ago, when it was also not my style.

Anyway, my point is, that as much as it appealed to me not to make plans for the summer––to attempt "just drifting. Here in the pool"

––stuff keeps happening.  The axiom about plans that comes to mind is the one about how they gang aft aglay for mice and men; or there's that one that asks "How do you make God laugh?" But I'm finding that what has gang aglay here is my attempt NOT to have plans.

I got a whole bunch of reminders this week that neither plans nor non-plans can necessarily be counted on. I went back to Washington, DC/Silver Spring MD for my cousin's funeral. A funeral is reminder enough that the all-you-can-eat-buffet approach to the future is ultimately delusional. 

I also attended a Health and Fitness Expo on Saturday, where I got a couple of free screenings––one for cardiovascular health and one for bone density. The first reinforced NP Patty's conclusion that it would be a good idea to improve my BMI, and unless I can grow a couple more inches, that is going to mean losing weight. The bone density scan gave me another wake-up call: time to get serious about calcium, weight-bearing exercise, and possibly becoming more friendly with the Flying Nun.

There is a connection between the confluence of these health issues––and several more that concern others in my immediate circle, plus let's add in all the warnings about skin cancer that have resurfaced this month––and the premise that underlies my whole "What's next for me?" quest, but I'm not putting my finger on it.

Is it as simple as, "Don't buy green bananas?"

I managed to get a picture of food in this post after all.

I don't think I have to go that far.

But I definitely have to buy more  green leafy vegetables if I want to keep making plans and non-plans.

No cobs

I had my annual physical yesterday.
"What are we going to do about your weight?" Patty, my nurse practitioner, asked me at the end of the visit. This was the second time she mentioned it in the 20-minute appointment. I had already told her that I have taken up Pilates and that I belong to Weight Watchers.
Still, Patty was right to ask again, because the weight isn't going anywhere. It just idly meanders within the same 3 to 5 pound range, which is around 15 pounds above my age/height–appropriate recommended weight.
What's different this year is that a blood test showed my glucose level one tick above normal range. Patty didn't sugar-coat (ha) it: Lose weight, or risk inching up into diabetes territory.

(I didn't point out that I had unfortunately scheduled this blood test to take place right after the cake festival that was Memorial Day weekend. I'm not sure how the chemistry works--would the glucose reading reflect an acute increase in buttercream frosting?)

"Most people think it's sweets that are the culprits," she said, "but it's the carbs--breads, bagels, pasta, potatoes."  Except Patty's a native New Englander, so she said "cobs."

"Cut out the cobs," she advised.

Coincidentally, the results of a long-term study of weight gain in middle age were all over the TV news today. There were no big surprises––fries, chips, sugary drinks, processed meats, and watching a lot of TV contributed to weight gain. Fruits and vegetables, nuts (my lonely little pecan friends!), and yogurt contributed to weight loss.

I don't find it useful when these things are phrased like this: ". . .for every additional serving per day. . ." It's like when the diet advice is "Just eliminate one donut every day, and you'll lose 10 pounds in a year!"
But I currently eat ZERO donuts a day, Einstein.

I am hereby recording my intention to follow Patty's advice. It will be tough. But I'd like to see a real measurable difference at some point--both in weight and in glucose level.

Speaking of measurable differences, listen to this awesome news: I measured half an inch TALLER than I was last year!!  Pilates!!

The Road You Didn't Take

We saw Follies on Saturday night, at the Kennedy Center in Washington, DC. (Stephen Sondheim's Follies. Did I have to say that?)

I've been familiar with the songs from Follies for nearly 40 years. More than "familiar with"–– I know them well and sing them not well, but earnestly. Hearing and singing them at the age of 20 or 30, though, is quite different from hearing them at age 58 and eleven-twelfths.

You take one road,

You try one door,

There isn't time for any more.

One's life consists of either/or.

One has regrets

Which one forgets,

And as the years go on.

The road you didn't take

Hardly comes to mind,

Does it?

The door you didn't try,

Where could it have led?

The choice you didn't make

Never was defined.

Was it?

Dreams you didn't dare

Are dead.

Were they ever there?

Who said!

I don't remember,

I don't remember

At all.

Nobody ever called Follies a "feel-good" musical, but I found this production a little depressing. I think I probably brought a lot of that in with me, but witnessing Bernadette Peters looking and sounding fragile and unsure of herself didn't help. Maybe her woman-on-the-verge appearance was a conscious choice for her portrayal of a nearly mad character––I'd like to give her that benefit of the doubt.

This is "Losing My Mind." No complaints about this number.

Though the show was the focal point of the weekend, we managed a little sight-seeing too, despite the appropriately hot and very muggy weather.

I was all set to do some reflecting, but darn it,
the Reflecting Pool was dry and all dug up. Kind of disconcerting.
"Jenny!!!!"

It's a Where's Waldo thing.

Funny story: 

When I was about 5, my family stayed with my much-much-older cousin's family in Silver Spring, Maryland, and we used that as our base camp as we all visited the major Washington landmarks. It was summer and, naturally, very hot. Due to my misunderstanding of something my mother told me as I got dressed one morning during the visit, it was at about this exact spot on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial that a breeze lifted up the back hem of my little cotton dress to reveal to my family, my cousins, and presumably a fair number of unsuspecting patriotic tourists, that I had omitted a certain basic item of clothing from my outfit for the day. Oops.

This became an oft-repeated family story, of course, but I think I actually do remember it, especially my defensiveness at the moment of discovery. My mother had said "Oh, you don't need any" that morning (about something else, obviously), but I rationalized that it was just so hot a day that I had permission to go without.

So I remembered that incident, and that visit with my cousin's family, as this photo was taken on Friday.

Epilogue:

On Saturday morning, my cousin died––the mother of the family in Silver Spring. She had been ill, and it was not unexpected, but learning the news on the heels of having that long-ago memory made it seem cosmic and mysterious. Which is what death is in any case, I've come to think.

I'm sorry to have taken you down a cheerless path when my intentions are really otherwise. So let's turn back to the light, and I'll end today's episode with food! We ate well and in quantity over the weekend, including a Father's Day bbq at home. Two dishes I had at Marcel's in Georgetown were photo-worthy:

That's a morsel of lobster in the center, with a cylinder of beet taking a nap on it. I never figured out what was in the silo on the left, or what the yellow squiggles were. But the pink slug on the right is a dollop of beet ice cream. The whole thing was delicious.

I think this was called Blueberry Parfait. It was exquisite.  Best dessert I've had in a recent memory, and not an ounce of chocolate anywhere in it. Go figure.

To Sir, with Love

Tomorrow is Paul McCartney's birthday, and today is the anniversary of the day I graduated from high school. I don't know for sure why both dates are so firmly etched in my memory, when so many other more relevant things are not, but there you go. They were both imprinted at what they call an "impressionable age," I guess.

I'm having a mini-adventure this weekend. Not an adventure at all, really, but I'm doing something that could potentially yield an anecdote or two. I'm not lugging all my blog-posting equipment this time, though, so reportage of anything of note will probably have to wait until my return.

So, have a nice weekend, everyone! Especially you, Sir Paul.

Blame Canada

I'm looking for something to blame for my lethargy. I've fallen behind on my Emerson project by four days, I haven't committed to a new book since finishing Netherland on Friday, and I'm having to drag myself here to write a new post. I'm blaming the weather, which has been dull, dark, and damp since Saturday.

More likely it's because there is nothing much happening to report on, and I really don't want this to turn into a Bridget Jones–esque log of my daily vital statistics or a public form of psychotherapy.

This is the Belarusian poster for Bridget Jones Diary.

Or I can blame social interaction. I saw and talked to a lot more people in the last four days than I usually do. I spend a lot of time alone and silent during the week (I'm not looking for sympathy; it's fine!), and I'm considering the theory that when I have the opportunity to converse with actual living people, maybe I use up all my "material" and have nothing left to write about.

In the course of these multiple social interactions, I heard three separate recommendations for the AMC series The Killing. All of the past twelve episodes are available online at amctv.com, I discovered, in anticipation of the finale, which will air this Sunday. I watched the first two hours, and I enjoyed it. It's moody, mysterious, and . . . I'm trying to come up with another M word. . .

That's another thing. I feel I have lost much of my ability to intelligently critique anything––TV shows, movies, novels. For example: Netherland.
It was. . .uh. . .good.

"It's about. . . this . . .whale."

For a former English major, this is a sorry state to find oneself in. In which to find oneself. It's not that I can't form an opinion, it's that I can't be bothered to come up with a intelligible way to express it. It's purely mental laziness. If I were back in college and had to write a paper on Netherland, I like to think I'd be able to reach into my English-major toolkit and identify the major themes, make a solid case for a few good symbols, cite some relevant excerpts, and present my opinion in full sentences.

Is this another thing for me to "work on" this summer? Will there be stickers?

Pilates update: I took a tough equipment class yesterday. I will say that, in general, the classes here have been more strenuous and less––what?––ethereal than the classes in L.A.  It's not a bad thing, it's just different. I've got a mat class scheduled for tomorrow at noon.

Now look at this Belarusian poster for 50 First Dates.

Ha ha. Funny.

Indulge me

It's a comical request, since this entire endeavor is nothing if not an indulgence, and anyone reading it on any given day is indulging me.
But my particular entreaty today comes because there will be barely any content, and certainly nothing of thematic interest. The purpose of this posting is to reinstate my habit of observing, thinking, and writing with regularity. I haven't posted in four days, and I am discovering for the thousandth time that it is startlingly easy to abandon a pattern of behavior.  It slips away without a struggle. The struggle is to stay on course.
I'm not about to give up so easily. So here I am!

Luckily, I have a small offering, and it includes photos, so all the better. Today being a dreary, rainy, chilly June day, we thought of making soup and baking bread. Soup-making is not very remarkable, but bread-baking hasn't been attempted in this household for a few decades, I think. I'm sorry it didn't occur to me to capture the whole effort in photo form until we were a good way into the process, but here is the limited storyboard:

We used the recipe from the back of the yeast packet––a basic whole wheat bread.

When I say "we," I actually mean the man of the house. I served in a supervisory capacity.

Great relief when the dough actually did rise to nearly double its size. Whew!

Cooling. Handsome, no?

Good texture. 

Freshly baked bread with butter was the reward. Delicious.

PERMA

I took my first Pilates class here yesterday. It was billed as a group equipment class (everyone on a Reformer), but with only two other students, it was nearly a private session. I liked it! The instructor, Dawn, was very nice and very encouraging, and I am starting to think that part of the training for becoming a Pilates instructor is that you must say "Nice!!!" every few minutes so that your students feel that they are actually managing to "draw your ribs together and up," etc.

Today's class was a mat class, and Dawn was the instructor again. This time there was a full house, which amounted to seven students. A number of the movements were quite difficult for me to attempt, let alone "master," so there is the potential for me to see a lot of change in my ability over time. Isn't that a sunny way of looking at it? After all, the Pilates claim is:

30 SESSIONS TO A BRAND NEW BODY

And I figure, between L.A. and here, I've had 7 Pilates sessions so far.

(Poetically impossible instruction of the day: "Bring your heart up and through your arms.")

Yesterday, after the very very nice, very lovely cleaning people had been in my house, I couldn't find Tuesday's New York Times. There is always a massive stack of old newspapers on the kitchen counter, and it seemed to be arranged differently after they were here, so I thought that the Tuesday paper must have gotten embedded in the stack. I started sifting through, unfolding every section to make sure the lost paper hadn't accidentally gotten itself hidden inside an older issue. While I had to be handling every section anyway, I decided to do my cursory flip-through, so that I could put them all in the recycle bag and get rid of the pile, for now.

I go through this time-shifted newspaper reading sporadically, but regularly (though that must be an oxymoron; I guess I mean "irregularly, but inevitably"). When some disastrous or otherwise huge event happens and you look at the newspaper from the day before with the knowledge of what is to come, it can be disorienting and often, to me, poignant. Just imagine looking at the front page of the paper from 9/10/01. Or the paper from the morning of 9/11/01, for that matter.

In this pile, there were no such premonitions of catastrophe, unless you count @repweiner's indignant denials. What a prince.

What caught my eye this time, though, was an article in the Science section from May 17 (not all that long ago) about "well-being," as opposed to "happiness," and a neat new acronym to consider, PERMA, for the "five crucial elements of well-being":

Positive emotion
Engagement (the feeling of being lost in a task)
Relationships
Meaning
Accomplishment

Since Oprah is all repeats now, I'd thought I'd throw that out for you to mull over.

I then Googled PERMA, one link led to another, and I found this, which is my final offering of the day, and which you may choose to stitch into a sampler:

I never did find Tuesday's paper.

Four things

Yesterday––great weather.
Deja vu.
At around 3:00, as I started to write yesterday's post, I realized that the library book sale was still on, and that Sunday is bargain day, when all the prices are half of what they were the first day, and a whole bag of books can be had for just a few dollars. I decided that if I put in the calories by walking to the library––and since there'd only be about 30 minutes left in the sale by the time I got there––the physical effort would justify buying a few more books. I brought along a canvas tote bag.


Ninety minutes, eight dollars, and thirteen pounds later, I had this:

Yes, The Fug Awards. Why not? Everything was nearly free!

I get extra credit for carrying thirteen additional pounds with me on my return trip! (Some of the extra credit is neutralized because it was SUCH a nice day that I made a detour to get some frozen yogurt. But it was yogurt, not ice cream! And it actually made the trip home LONGER! So, full credit.)

What was best about the afternoon (closely followed by the mint chocolate chip frozen yogurt) was the feeling I had while I was gathering up my selections. I ended up with a big pile of all kinds of books––whatever struck my fancy. It made me feel like I did back in the solar system–sticker days. The pleasure wasn't in acquiring the books, it was in anticipating the wide-open stretch of summer days in which to read them. And I realized that I have the freedom and the wonderful luxury of being able to enjoy just that kind of summer––all remaining 86 days of it.

So, as I walked home, the thirteen pounds of freedom made me feel lighter. Irony!
(Thirteen Pounds of Freedom is an upcoming inspirational thriller starring Denzel Washington.)

And so, it's decided.
This summer I will do four things:
Read
Write
Pilates
Unpack boxes of my mother's possessions

In 86 days, I'll reassess.

Shopping

Yesterday––great weather. I went for a walk. The library was having a book sale, and I stopped in for what turned out to be the better part of an hour. Twice a year, for a weekend, they fill up the "community room" with tables covered with used hardcovers and paperbacks, and books are no more than a dollar.

Used book sales are a dilemma for me, moreso as I grow older. The trade-off between the pleasure of acquiring the books and then the burden of incorporating them into my already overflowing bookshelves–-along with the sad reality that I read so much less than someone who claims to love books might be expected to read––is a deterrent. Nevertheless, I like to look at books, be around books, think about reading books, think about writing books. . .so a book sale is still an attraction.

I browsed. I considered. I registered some mild despair. . . contemplating all the effort, all the thoughts, all those words waiting there, in a sort of Sleeping Beauty–state, waiting for some enchanted kiss–– someone to choose them, bring them home, open the covers, take them in, roll them around in their heads for a while, before shutting them back up on a shelf for more silent eons.

Too much anthropomorphizing. It's not the words I pitied, I guess, it's the writers who put so much blood, sweat, and tears into producing them. And OK, it's probably not "the writers" I'm pitying, but me.  Would it be worth MY blood, sweat, and tears––if I could ever be bothered to actually squirt them out (eww)––to finally manage to write something and have it published*,  when there are already ALL these volumes on all these sale tables, and in all these local libraries, not to mention the NYPL, Widener, and the Library of Congress?

But let's not blow things out of proportion. This is just a shopping story.

As luck would have it, I came across a nice Everyman's Library volume of Emerson's essays!

Serendipity! Coincidence! But, no. Remembering Her wisdom--there are no coincidences––I knew I had to buy it because, glory be, this might be a sign, telling me this is to be The Summer of Emerson.

The book would be $1 and all I had was a twenty. I saw the disappointment in the face of the volunteer cashier, so I told her I'd look around for some more, so she wouldn't have to make change. I spent another half hour, considering carefully, picking up, putting down. Eventually I settled on enough books to run up a tally of $5. Here is what I got:

He's a good writer. I wanted to read this. Sorry, you can't click to look inside here.

I recently read Anne Morrow Lindbergh's Gift from the Sea and found it surprisingly relevant. Also, check out the subtitle. Duh.

A recommended author. This copy is clean and unread. Sorry again; no clickie.

A memoir. Are you sensing a theme? 

And another little gem, which will find a home in Brooklyn. 

That was yesterday's story. I'll save today's story for tomorrow.
Gotta pace myself.

* I know, I know, I know.

National Something Day

I encountered this sign, unexpectedly, when I stopped in at DD to get an iced decaf. I declined my free donut, which is something I am allowing myself to feel all self-congratulatory about. Because it looks pretty good, doesn't it? 
With the 92 days of summer whittled down by three already, I still have not yet settled on some unifying theme to carry me through, and it may turn out that keeping a variation on Oprah's gratitude journal––a smug journal, maybe?––will be my summer project. I'm keeping all options open.


A friend sent me this link, which is very close to just what the doctor ordered, and for which I am grateful. I'm going to be doing it, but not in this space. 
As a consequence of encountering the #Trust30 website, I've been reading over the Emerson essay "Self-Reliance," and it's definitely going to take me more than one reading to absorb it. It's possible that 92 – 3 = 89 more readings is exactly what I'll need. But my initial impression is that Emerson makes a pretty good case for blogging: Value your own thoughts, and while you're at it, go ahead and express them––before you miss the boat and find someone else has beat you to it:
 Else tomorrow a stranger will say with masterly good sense precisely what we have thought and felt all the time, and we shall be forced to take with shame our own opinion from another.

Therefore, I'm going to take back what I said yesterday about my misgivings about blogs and blogging. I'm all for it now. Crystal, I apologize.
So, I changed my mind. So what? That's Emersonian, too: 
. . . if you would be a man speak what you think today in words as hard as cannon balls, and tomorrow speak what tomorrow thinks in hard words again, though it contradict every thing you said today.  Ah, then, exclaim the aged ladies, you shall be sure to be misunderstood! . . . Is it so bad then to be misunderstood? Pythagoras was misunderstood, and Socrates and Jesus, and Luther, and Copernicus, and Galileo, and Newton, and every pure and wise spirit that ever took flesh. To be great is to be misunderstood.


And there you have it.  

I think a field trip might be in order.

Now, everybody go get a free donut.

Blog Roulette

My general misgivings about blogging and blogs can be illustrated by sampling from the universe of teeny, tiny worlds that open when you click the "Next Blog" link on any blogspot blog.

First let's all say blog a few dozen more times.

See where it says "Next Blog" up there, above the "h" in Stretching? I click there often. It makes me feel very, very small. I realize, in a slightly nauseating split second, that I am one more in a (what's a nicer word than pathetic?) cavalcade of a bajillion people who are all "expressing themselves" by singing in the shower––but with the door open, beckoning passers-by to enter.

"Oh, so glad you came by to hear me sing 'Don't Rain on My Parade'!  And since you're here, why don't you take a look at the hearts and smiley faces I drew in the fog on the medicine cabinet mirror! Thanks for stopping in! See you next time!"


I've discovered that the links aren't totally random. Because I've written so much about Pilates in my posts, I guess, the Google robots categorize me with exercise and yoga blogs. Like, right now, the first link is to "Fit and Fabulous after 40!" It's written by Amy, who lives in Belgium, of all places. Amy's back is feeling better! Hooray!


Another click, and I'm at "Maximus Lewin Strength And Conditioning." Maximus does a LOT of squats and push-ups, and he capitalizes "And" in a title. Then we get "Maximum Performance CrossFit" ––yeah, yeah, blah, blah––and then suddenly we've crossed some invisible threshold and we've entered "What a Day to Be Alive" with photos of crayons, and flowers, and adorable little girls eating ice cream.  

Ach. So here I am, too, telling you and anyone who might wander in through "Next Blog" roulette what I had for breakfast. Literally what I had for breakfast.

So, yeah––misgivings.
But now I will shrug them off.

I went for a private Pilates session this afternoon at a local studio. The woman who instructed me was encouraging and pleasant, but she told me she is leaving the studio in two weeks, so I won't get too attached. What she had me do was a variant of what I did in L.A., not quite as balletic-ly pleasing, but still good. I think I'll sign up for a month-by-month plan. The person who told me about the payment plans was a good-looking, Gaston-shaped young man named Ace. I'm glad I am able to introduce someone named Ace as a character in these proceedings.

Let me close today with this:

CRYSTAL

About Me

I am a stay at home mommy of 3 beautiful boys! I have a wonderful husband who loves me and treats me like a princess! I enjoy crafts and being with family and friends!

The Summer of . . .

It's June 1, the perfect day to start something.


Some pop music radio station that I listened to in my distant or recent past––I can't remember––would declare there to be "100 days of summer," which must be all of June, July, and August, and I guess a random eight days of September. Or maybe they started with Memorial Day weekend, whenever that fell. Or maybe it worked out to be 100 days from Memorial Day to Labor Day only in the summer of 1965 when Cousin Brucie was in charge of my playlist. Anyway, it occurred to me yesterday that I was on the brink of 100 days of summer, more or less. And it felt like the perfect time to start a project.


On January 1st––literally a lifetime ago––I had a similar urge. Resolutions, per se, didn't really interest me, but doing something systematically, repeatedly, compulsively, and equal parts purposeful/purposeless-ly in a neatly packaged unit of time did. Here is the idea list I made on January 1, 2011:

The year of blogging incessantly

The year of living without irony (as if)

The year of photographing all my meals (missed breakfast already)

The year of photographing/recording/logging/commenting on all my

food

waste

outfits

purchases

thoughts

writing

illnesses

fingernail clippings

hairdos/bad hair days, etc.

The year of logging progress on new year’s resolutions

The year of beginnings

The year of wondering

The year of not observing anything

The year of no facebook/internet/email, purchases from China, fat, sugar, exercise, chocolate, coffee, talking, showering

The year of taking chances

The year of taking no chances

The year of possibility

The year of not asking my children any questions (so far, so good; 11:58 a.m.)

The year of writing every day

The year of

The year of

The year of

The year of secret blogging

The year of secrets

The year of no secrets

The year of observing everything I do, in hopes that one of my actions can be recorded incessantly for a year-long blog, to become wildly popular around July, to be picked up as a book deal/movie by October

What I actually did on January 1, 2011:  Installed Angry Birds on my iPod.

Apparently images of the game are all copyright restricted.

But now things feel different. And 100 days is not a whole year, so "The summer of" seems much more realistic than "The year of."

When I was in elementary school, I always participated in my public library's summer reading program. You'd keep a log of the books you read, and after some arbitrary number were logged in, you'd get a sticker to put on your card. Each year there was a different theme. The one I remember best, because I kept the card for so long afterward, was the solar system. Every––what could it have been? ––5 books? 10 books? they'd give you a sticker for one of the planets. The stickers, in my memory, were not run-of-the-mill ones like you'd see now, but high-quality, translucent colored discs that somehow fit into the back of the 8" x 12" card, so that the planets showed through the die-cut holes in the sky-blue cardboard. I think there was even an "award" ceremony at the end of the summer for those of us who had completed the whole solar system.

Of course Pluto was a planet back then––what did we know.

So, so, so...my point is: I want to make lists, and  get stickers, and have a cupcake at the award ceremony at the end of the summer.

But for doing what?