Trick to avoid holiday weight gain

Get the flu and vomit endlessly. Merry Christmas!

Thanks, legs!

And thank you dear friends who have ridden any part of these miles with me!

Memoirs - Ugh

I just came across this funny thing that I wrote a year ago:

I am so sick of hearing about memoirs. The worst to me are the ones about motherhood. Maybe if/when I am a mother, I will be more interested in them, but at that point if I do have the time to read I most certainly won’t want to read about someone else’s adventures in calamity.

For example (and these are not too far of a stretch from what is actually available on bookshelves):

My year as an over-educated, under-experienced occasional vegetarian who tries not to smoke too much and who feels a twinge of guilt every time I put something in the trash

My year of yoga every day regardless of the great inconvenience to my girlfriend who had to drive me because of my DUI

Adventures in motherhood: the story of a woman who decided to procreate with her husband after they bought a house, a Volvo, and a dog

My year of following the Old Testament literally [2011 note: I think a few of these sorts of memoirs have actually come out since I wrote this last year.]

A year of Macy’s instead of Nordstrom

The Skins Do Pop Off

Cool band name, eh? I'll be in charge of the tambourine and the outfits. Now, can you folks out there write the songs, sing, and play the other instruments? Then we can quit our jobs and hit the road.

The band name comes from a process currently taking place in my apartment. I'm canning 25 lbs of tomatoes. That's right -- my urban homesteading fantasies are becoming reality, at least for tonight.

Pics below. Special thanks to Zoe for the inspiration, motivation, and instruction. Thanks also to roommate David who is about to come home to an apartment sprinkled with tomato parts and juice, without whose pots and utensils my evening of canning would not have been possible. Also thanks to neighbor Karen who lent me canning pot, jar lifter tool, and mason jar book with nicely illustrated instructions.

I wish I could go back in time and have some words with the tortured law student version of myself. The words would be both gentle and firm. I used to spend hours lamenting that I didn't have time to cultivate my modern homestead. Sometimes we have to be patient. We can't have everything all at once. But things do slowly fall into place. I have 8 quarts of canned tomatoes to prove it.

Before the party started

The skins do pop off

Jars in water

Finito! Good night!

Devastating news from tuesday's gynecology appointment

It took a few days to process before I could blog about it.

They took my height and said that I am 5'7 1/2.

All this time, like since high school, I've said I was 5'9.

My identity and sense of self are shaken.

I always think of myself as a tall woman.

This changes my height to weight ratio.

I am getting a second opinion.

Luckily, my sister has been in town this week and has provided immeasurable support during this trying time. She is a physician herself and we will run some separate tests this evening.

In the meantime, please light a candle for me.

Day-tripping/East coast growing on me/Falling in love with my life or at least learning to like it more/I’m not sure why this is so long

Any of these titles will do for this post.

With the subtitle: Philly day trip

I rolled out of bed at 4:15 on Saturday morning. Was one of those mornings when I looked in the mirror and saw that I had slept in such a way that my hair was looking good. I considered forgoing a shower and getting ten more minutes of sleep, but then I smelled the bod and determined that she needed a rinse. She got it and then I packed myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and carried my bike out of my apartment.

My neighbor Joe was smoking a cigarette on the steps outside of our building. “What are you doing up at this hour?” I asked in a motherly tone. “Cute boys,” he said and grinned. His Friday night hadn’t ended by the time my Saturday morning began.

I pedaled down to Union Station. I had never been out at this hour in DC. I saw a real life super obvious prostitute. Mesh body suit over black bra and underwear. A car stopped to talk to her. He didn’t want what she was offering or she wouldn’t do what he was asking for. He drove away. I continued on my way. I locked my bike up at Union Station. There was a man in a maroon t-shirt sleeping on top of the concrete barricades that surround the bike racks to prevent cars from hitting the bikes. I bet the concrete was cool in contrast to the hot air.

I got on the 5:25 train bound for Philadelphia. I was on my way to a conference for law librarians. I observed that I really didn’t feel anything about the trip. No nervousness, no anticipation, no excitement. Nothing. Does this mean that I’ve chosen the wrong career path? No – I think it means that I’ve chilled a bit and come to realize all is well and will most likely continue to be so. Also, I think the itinerary I devised for myself might have tempered any enthusiasm about the day. Super early train there and super late train home. I was just hoping to make it through the day.

Train ride was lovely. Nice sunrise, views of the water, and a few more bites of sleep.

Morning conference sessions were fine. Mostly fluff, but good to meet people in my field. These were all newer law librarians like myself. At several points during conversations with job-seekers, I said to myself about myself “You are one lucky mofo.” Nothing else can make you appreciate the job that you frequently complain about like meeting a bunch of young, smart, nice people who would like to have your job. Also, several of the conversations started with compliments to me on my hair. I had to bite my tongue from bragging that I woke up with it like that.

There was a speed networking portion of the morning. It wasn’t terrible. At one point, I was talking to a young woman with orange-ish lipstick on her face, only some of which was on her lips. She mentioned something about a dog. It didn’t appear like this rotation of the speed networking was going to end soon so I asked her what kind of dog even though the answer to that question is always either something that I have never heard of or something that I can’t picture. There was a lot of noise around us, and she misheard the question and went into a long story about a why she wanted to be a law librarian which for some reason involved a story about trapping a rat or a bat in a box and I stopped listening but kept nodding and smiling and thinking about how if I ever start to lose my hearing I might not always ask people to speak up.

Then all of us new librarians boarded a tour bus and took a tour of Philadelphia, which was also surprisingly not terrible. In triple digit temps, seeing a city by tour bus is forgivable, right?

Then I found myself with three and half hours to kill before dinner but absolutely no desire to be out in the heat. I went to Reading Terminal Market and bought some of my favorite red licorice and a packet of pickling spices. Then I went to Macy’s for air conditioning and a toilet.

The tour guide had mentioned that there is a large pipe organ inside the Macy’s. I slowly made my way through the store up the escalators to the third floor where the bathrooms are located. On my way back down, I saw a sign that said there would be a concert at 5:30. Lovely. I found a nice spot in the shoe department, pulled out a book, and waited for the concert to begin. It was quite nice. I stayed in the shoe department reading for about a half hour after the concert ended.

I met up with librarians with whom I had worked last summer for a lovely dinner in honor of one of the librarians who had received an award for community service. I left the restaurant at 10 pm with the honoree and another librarian and we headed out to catch the 10:30 pm train back to DC.

On the train ride home, I was overcome with gratitude. Gratitude that all is well. Gratitude for the opportunities that I’ve had in DC. Gratitude that life has shown me once again that although we rarely know what’s coming next, the chances are quite high that whatever it is, it will be good. Gratitude for a good haircut. Gratitude was followed by drowsiness, and I slept the rest of the way to DC.

The women who took the train with me both offered me a ride home and then gasped when I thanked them but said that I would ride my bike; it’s a short ride; I have lights and a helmet. I assured them that I would be safe and we parted ways. I left Union Station and stepped out into the night. It had been pitch black when I left my bike there in the morning and it was pitch black when I returned. The man in the maroon t-shirt was there in the exact same spot. I rode home and when I pulled up to my building I was hoping Joe would be out front, but he wasn’t. That would have made for a pleasingly symmetrical day.

Organ pipes at Macy's

Organ player at Macy's

Steps from Rocky at Philadelphia Museum of Art

Rocky statue

Meta-jealousy

I’m jealous of an article about something that I am jealous about.

When I read No one Belongs Here More than You by Miranda July, I thought, “Hey, I was going to do that.” I wanted to write like that. I wanted to make those precious observations. I’ve got that in me and I wanted to get it out and put it down on paper, but I never got around to it. And she put it down on paper and she put it on film and did so much else with it. And I haven’t really tapped into whatever it is I think I have in me. Well, good for her. I decided to enjoy her work rather than resent her. At least someone’s doing something with what they’ve got in them.

And now here’s this New York Times Magazine article with all sorts of well-crafted observations on the various responses to Miranda July.

Here are some excerpts:

To her detractors (“haters” doesn’t seem like too strong a word) July has come to personify everything infuriating about the Etsy-shopping, Wes Anderson-quoting, McSweeney’s-reading, coastal-living category of upscale urban bohemia that flourished in the aughts.

The urban bohemian irks precisely because his or her quirky individuality is just part of a different kind of uniformity, where the uniform happens to be a bushy beard or Zooey Deschanel bangs rather than country-club khakis. Twee fascinations with childhood innocence can mask an unwillingness to tackle life’s darker quandaries. Who wouldn’t be annoyed by a guy who, say, finds a cracked milk bottle, makes a film about it, then silk screens it on a T-shirt and names his band Milk Bottle? The stakes are low. The results are soon forgotten.

It’s odd that she has come to represent, for some, a kind of soulless hipster cool, because in July’s work, nobody is cool. There’s no irony to it, no insider wink. Her characters are ordinary people whose lives don’t normally invite investigation. So her project is the opposite of hipster exclusion: her work is desperate to bring people together, forcing them into a kind of fellow feeling. She’s unrelentingly sincere, and maybe that sincerity makes her difficult to bear. It also might make her culturally essential.

She admires directors like Baumbach and Wes Anderson, but she said: “All those men are also personal. I don’t mind that, but I do mind that it’s not really questioned, whereas I or another woman is looked at as so self-obsessed. Men are just not being judged in the same way. They’re never going to be annoying in the same way.”

Recent Rides

Rode a chunk of Skyline Drive at Shenandoah National Park with a couple of friends who are training for RAGBRAI. Spent the whole time climbing at 7 mph or blasting down at 35 mph and very little in between. It was tough but fun!

I like the choices that I have in DC.
Rode a nice 40-mile, oft-cycled loop up MacArthur Blvd, over on Tuckerman Lane, and then home through Rock Creek Park, with a stop at La Boulangerie in Potomac, MD for well-stuffed croissants and pretty tarts. Zoe couldn't resist the baguettes and rode 20 miles home with one. What a nice touch for all of roadies who we saw who were presumably fantasizing about the Tour de France!

Fucking good shit

I made my second pie today. First one with a lattice. Maybe it was beginner's luck, but that was some good shit. I followed Deb's guidance. But instead of using the crust recipe included in that recipe, I followed her Pie Crust 102 directions. Thanks Deb! What a success. She's right -- you can't make a pie crust with a food processor. You must use a pastry cutter. I was a bit short on rhubarb and the crust looked a bit empty after I filled it, so I added blueberries and cherries. Holy balls. Goddamn. I don't even really like pie, but this was one of the best things I've had in my mouth in a while.

Microtour

DC-Cobb Island

Why, hello there.

So this weekend I reunited with myself and so must blog about it in order for it to have really happened.

I rode my bike from DC to Cobb Island, MD, where my landlady lives. It was 67 miles down there yesterday and 60 miles home today, taking a more direct and yet more scenic route. When I set sail from my apartment with rear rack and one pannier (microtour, remember), I immediately thought, ah yes, this is the fullest expression of myself. Not to be too self-aggrandizing, but the transformation from pedestrian/occassional cyclist to bicycle tourist is similar to what I think Clark Kent experiences in the phone booth.

I left Cobb Island this morning at 6:30 and took a road through farmland with the morning dew hanging over it and I thought, "This is the thing from which all else flows." That is an epiphany that I have had before. I always want my life set up in such a way that I can get away for a tour, even a quick one. This means: having a bike in good repair, having a job with vacation time, and maintaining my health/fitness.

Highlights of the ride include:

-getting passed by a dork with a cotton t-shirt tucked into bib shorts and then reminding myself that I have all day to ride so there is no need to race with dorks

-passing a guy riding a rascal on the shoulder of the highway

-stopping for an apple and thinking that I was staring at deer yard art until the deer ran away

-40 miles on roads lined with honeysuckle and lilacs

-cheers from my landlady's neighbors when I arrived

Here are some pics:

At my apt in DC

I wasn't sure how I would get over the Potomac on the Woodrow Wilson Bridge, but was delighted to get there and find a nice bike path with a plexiglass barrier that blocks the sound from the highway.

Hurray for bike infrastructure!

Osprey nest at Cobb Island. Platforms were put in to provide a place for the osprey to nest to prevent their extinction. Now they rule the place.

Goodnight, Cobb Island.

Good morning, Cobb Island.

There were chickens in the road!

I took this pic for my friend Brent, who is currently recovering from a bike accident. Last summer, inspired by one of these signs, he led a group of drunken fourth of july revelers in a protest calling for the end of road work.

The Potomac, taken from the middle of the Woodrow Wilson Bridge. If you click on the picture to make it bigger, you can see the Washington Monument in the center.

Weekend Proper

It’s wonderful to have my evenings and weekends back. Nice to have the increase in free time coincide with the arrival of spring. We had 70 degree weather on Friday and the city turned into a beach. And then a full moon that night. Woke up this morning and decided to ride my bike 35 miles east to the Chesapeake Bay. Normally I don’t like out and back rides, but the turnaround point was worth making an exception. I walked in the water and climbed on the rocks and was feeling quite Elisabethan and snapped a few photos.

Except for the 10 miles leading up to and away from the water, the ride was pretty gross. Model homes, town homes, idiot drivers, strip malls most of the way. Central Avenue/MD 214 looked like a nice country road on the map, but I had failed to acknowledge that those aren’t nice country roads that bring hundreds of thousands of people into DC from surrounding areas for work every day.

About ten miles outside of the city on my way home, I was at a stop light, waiting on the left side of the right turn only lane so that cars could get by. A car pulled up on my right and the driver said, “Why would you do that? Why do you ride on the road? Why do you put your life in the hands of others? Don’t you know people around here don’t know how to drive? I don’t want to hear about you on the news. Get on the sidewalk.”

I was so tired at this point in my ride, all I could think about in forming my response was how to get this man to stop yelling at me. I knew he was making a right turn and wouldn’t be following me, so I just said, “Okay.” Then of course I spent the next ten miles thinking of better ways that I could have responded to him.

I could have told him that I had to ride on that highway because I wanted to see the water. Even though DC is full of bike trails, those trails are also full of strollers and dogs and those trails don’t go to the water. I could have told him this ride is the nicest thing I’ve done all week. I could have told him that I had mapped out this ride months ago and have been waiting to have the time to do it. I could have explained how riding a bike on a sidewalk is stupid and more dangerous. I could have explained how it is important for bikes to be out on the road and visible so that drivers get used to sharing the road. I could have told him to get out of his car and onto a bike. I could have said a lot of things, but I just said, “Okay.” I was tired, the light was about to change, and he was an old crotch who wouldn’t have listened to anything I might have said.

All in all, it was nice to get some miles in. Probably won’t do this ride again. Sadly, the idea of having a car to get out of the city to ride my bike is seeming less ridiculous and actually sort of appealing. I won’t do it. Luckily, bikes are allowed on the metro so my strategy for future rides may be to take a train to the end of a line and start there.

We would hyphenate: Garbanzo-Beaner

If I could marry a legume, it would have to be the chickpea.



Lo siento, lentil. I know we’ve had some good times and we go so far back, but I read somewhere that you inhibit iron absorption and once I started to think about it I realized that you do in fact create in me a need to take frequent rests. Although I’m happy to help another overcome his/her/its inhibitions, an inhibition that messes with my absorption of iron is something that I simply cannot, must not, tolerate.

To my dear chickpea, I regret that my profession of love for you required such an explanation regarding the lentil. Let us move on shall we?

Friends: This is my cry for help.

None of you will talk to me/email me because I told you I am studying. And I am studying, but I can’t study all the time. No one wants to distract and that’s very considerate, but do you really want me sitting alone in my apartment considering matrimony to a legume? They won't even let the gays get married! One positive thing that has come out of my solitary confinement is that I’ve thought of some good jokes:

Joke Number 1:
Q: Melba, why are you taking the Nebraska bar exam?
A: Because that’s where all the good bars are.

Joke Number 2:
Q: What does Snoop Dogg call the bar exam?
A: The bizarre exam.

Overheard in Dupont

"I could never live in Idaho or anywhere else in the midwest."

"It's a fixed gear so that means it's really hardcore."

CIRAC

In preparation for the bar exam, I must practice writing very formulaic essays. State your Conclusion, identify the Issues, state the Rule, Apply the rule to the facts, repeat your Conclusion.

Example:

We will all be okay. At issue is whether things will turn out okay given that shit is generally so fucked up. In general, things turn out okay as long as we stay cool and calm and treat each other gently. In the case at hand, we are doing lots of yoga, riding our bikes, keeping things in perspective, surrounding ourselves with chill people, and treating people as we like to be treated. These things keep us calm and result in the gentle treatment of others. We will all be okay.

Back together again

Sometimes I get so tired of being so good all the time. So last night I made myself a stiff drink (which I couldn't finish), put on some tunes and decided to get into what I was saving as a treat for myself after the bar exam.

I had shipped my Jamis out here when I was home for christmas and was going to wait until after the bar to put it together.





It didn't take too long at all. I futzed with the brakes until I gave up and went to bed. But then I woke up with new resolve this morning and finished it up in ten minutes. Isn't that funny? That happens with work and studying. Something can be so difficult at night, but then it's a crystal clear jiffy in the morning.



The sight of two of my bikes 69ing makes me so happy. Now I just need the rain to stop so I can go for a spin.

Style Section: What she ate

I was craving homecooking today, so I thought I would re-create an old childhood favorite. Chips and cheese! This is a more modern version, because it uses hint-o-lime tostitos, which haven’t always been around, if you can believe it. It’s also a fancier version because I used real cheddar cheese. The recipe is so versatile because if you are feeling fancy and motivated, you can shred the cheese yourself. If you are feeling fancy but not motivated, you can just slice the cheese. If you are feeling trashy, you can use american cheese. If you are feeling forlorn, you can just gnaw on the block of cheese and forgo the chips.

Style Section: What she wore

This post is inspired by this article in the New York Times style section.

Do you really think she did all that in one week? No way. Rather, she racked her brain for the most brag-worthy things she had done or wanted to do in the past seven years and mashed it all into one week.

Anyway, here is what I wore today:

I started the morning in a nightshirt. I had gone to bed in a nightshirt and flannel pants, but I don’t know what happened to the pants. C’est la vie.

I knew I had a big day ahead of me and so I picked out my dressiest sweat pants and my best hoodie. Then I fucked around on the internet for like three hours. Then I decided to go for a run.

I wore my black champs sports running tights, a blue beanie stolen from my brother, black cotton gloves from target and a blue long sleeve running top from a second hand sporting goods store. The tights for some reason have started to sag this winter. Could it be because I have had them for ten years and my mother had them for two or three years before that?

Then I jumped in the shower in my favorite outfit and then I returned to the sweat pants hoodie combo that I was so comfortable in earlier in the day. And then, surprise surprise, I fucked around on the internet for a few more hours.

One of most challenging things about striking the balance between skank and prude is determining the proper amount of skin to show in a given situation.

How to get the keyhole look: find a hoodie like this one that I got at a goodwill in lincoln, nebraska. Snap the top snap, unzip the zipper a smidge.

Thanks, Internet!

This is my life right now:



It's a disaster. But aren't those bookshelves nice? Don't you want to come over and have a drink and talk about John Updike?

It was looking to be another humdrum saturday of camping out at the dining room table with the bar review books, but then I started tending to my garden of sad little wandering jew clippings, which are just waiting for me to go out and buy them some potting soil.



The little guy in the shot glass was begging for water.

So I reached for my bottle of water on the dining room table, and in doing so, I discovered a water stain worse than any I'd ever created.



On my very nice landlady's dining room table! When this has happened before, I've noticed the water before it has had time to sink in and I dash to the kitchen and grab a towel to dry it off and olive oil to make it go away and it has always worked. On this occasion, unfortunately, the water sat all night. The olive oil wasn't doing anything. I thought about calling my mom for her advice, but I was feeling like such a neanderthal for putting a wet water bottle on someone else's dining room table, and I knew she would be distressed by the situation. And so I turned to my good old friend the internet and was instructed to put non-gel toothpaste on the crime scene.



It worked! (Sort of -- it looks better than before, but not quite how it used to.)



Well, now that that's resolved, this calls for a study break.

Oh, use the coat check! It’ll be just like old times.

I said this to my friend David last night at the 9:30 club. We went to see Yo La Tengo. I had been excited for the show since I first found out about it a few weeks ago. This was going to be one of my few recreational engagements during this time of bar preparation.

When I walked to work yesterday morning, I was visualizing the evening ahead. I thought about what I would wear. I thought maybe I would dress it up a bit, but I knew that if I didn’t feel like it when the time came, I certainly wouldn’t be out of place in a sweatshirt, jeans, and tennis shoes. I thought about outerwear and decided to wear a thin but warm enough jacket that I could easily stuff into my bag during the show rather than having to hold a bulkier coat. I wondered what time the show would actually get started. Doors were at 8, so of course we wouldn’t go until 10.

I started thinking about the 1950s and early 1960s, or at least the version of that time that I have in my head, which is largely informed by Mad Men and Back to the Future, Part 1. If we were going an evening performance in the 50s, we would be dressed to the nines, we would check our fine coats, we would be seated during the show, and it would start and end at a reasonable time. There would definitely be toilet paper in the bathroom stalls. And all of it would cost us less.

Do I sound like a curmudgeon? Or maybe like a tea partier, mourning the passage of days gone by without acknowledging that those days weren’t so great for large chunks of the population?

If the show had actually been good, I might be content to have been born in these times. (Those are some high stakes for a show, eh? If they had only known, I’m sure they would have tried harder.) The show started out great. They had great stage presence and were very engaging and entertaining. For this tour, they start every show by having an audience member spin a wheel which determines what they play for the first set. As David said, “This is some good schtick.” Problem was the wheel landed on The Sounds of Science, “78 minutes of instrumental music...contain[ing] the entire score written and performed by the band to accompany eight legendary but rarely-seen undersea documentary shorts by influential French avant-garde filmmaker Jean Painleve.” The audience groaned. This was not what any of us came here for, with the exception of the tall guy in the rugby shirt in front of me. His mind was blown.

They need to take The Sounds of Science off their wheel. It was torture. The whole audience was chatting. I was wishing I would have brought my flashcards so I could have at least studied. I considered buying a pack of cigarettes just so I could go outside. I went to the bathroom and looked at my zits. When I came back, I asked my friends if they would like to get a drink and come back for the second set. Their eyes lit up. It’s never a good sign if the bar in the basement is full during the headliner. But it wasn’t too crowded and we could talk and sit. The music by Queen that they were playing in the basement was better than what was going on upstairs.

The show made me feel old. Would a younger version of me have been interested in the first set? Or at least feigned interest? Or at least tolerated it?

When we went back up to check out the second set, they played “Periodically Double or Triple” and “Sugarcube” and instantly redeemed themselves and the night was briefly salvaged and for a moment I was ok with existing in 2011, but then they ended with a really long jam session which revived the bad taste in my mouth and the yearning for an era that probably never existed.

During the show I wondered whether I would be able to listen to Yo La Tengo again. This morning, I concluded that I can indeed still enjoy their music and I decided to think of this band like a friend. Sure, some of my friends do some weird shit that has no appeal to me, but since they are so fun to hang out with most of the time, I won’t write them off. Also, I’ve always liked the female vocalist, but I had no idea that while she’s singing she is also playing the drums. Just like Karen Carpenter without the eating disorder!

Liberation proclamation

Getting off facebook has been so liberating. It's been less than 24 hours and already I have achieved higher levels of consciousness. Now, what do I do about the nagging desire to publicize my consciousness via a status update? Ah, yes, my secret little blog. More later (if I feel like it).

Weekend Highlights

Saturday
I saw a deer in this old cemetery at sunset. It was quite a neat moment, especially after a day of sitting at my dining room table alone with my bar review books. Woe is me.

Sunday
Homemade peanut butter and attempted julienned vegetables. I finally opened up my new food processor, “purchased” with the westlaw points I accumulated during law school. I was skeptical of food processors...so big, so many parts, so 70s...but after tasting my homemade peanut butter, I will gladly reserve the necessary cabinet space for my new machine. Roasted unsalted peanuts, honey, a bit of olive oil (probably unnecessary), and a little bit of water. Amazing! The water gives it a more whipped effect.

Then I followed the instructions for julienned carrots, which didn’t work so well. I wonder if I didn’t follow the instructions correctly or if this is the difference between a Hamilton Beach food processor and a Cuisinart one. (I’ll have to file this away as a potential conversation topic for the next cocktail party.)

Studying is so much more pleasant with a bowl of carrot discs of uniform width. How and why did I go so long without this appliance?

Life Bird

My friend's mom is a bona fide birder. She taught us that when you see a bird for the first time in your life, it is called a "life bird." Today I saw a Broad-winged Hawk. In the middle of Dupont Circle! Just hanging with the pigeons and then it flew up into the trees to take in the scene and potential food offerings.



http://www.allaboutbirds.org/guide/Broad-winged_Hawk/id

I wasn't gonna have a resolution, but then I thought of a really good one.

Some say it is silly to go to sleep on new years eve and think anything will be different when you wake up on new years day.

That’s what I was thinking when I fell asleep last night watching a movie, knowing that there were dishes from 2010 in the sink and a suitcase from holidays 2010 that still needed to be unpacked.

And yet, I woke up this morning feeling peace within. Peace within! Outta nowhere. I like 2011 so far. Peace within is not new to me, although it has been so long since I’ve felt it. I welcome it back, but I know it can be fleeting. Although peace within sounds so passive, it takes so much vigilance to maintain it. After feeling it come and go many many times, I know that it is not something that comes with age, or with x number of yoga classes. Once you attain it, it is not necessarily there forever. It requires practice and attention and vigilance because there are too many forces out there that can so quickly whisk it away from you and too many forces within one’s own mind that can push it out.

My resolution for 2011 is to remember that contentment, gratitude, and hope are just as accessible and available to me as self-criticism and cynicism. It really is a matter of choice. For some reason, negativity is the default for me, but if I choose and practice peace within, perhaps that will become the default and maybe one day it will all be so much less work. Maybe not. Either way, it’s worth the effort.

To my gentle reader who recently told me about her newfound peace within: You attributed it to reaching a certain age or turning a certain page, but I beg you to guard that shit vigilantly for it can easily slip away.

You dropped your confidence.

“Excuse me, you look good.” he said with the same urgency and lack of self-interest that one would use to tell someone they dropped a mitten. I had just attempted a run but was walking home because of back pain. I was fretting over the weight that I am sure that I have gained recently and wondering whether my blocked chakras are manifesting themselves in physical deformities yet.

I said thank you with the same kind of gratitude I would have if he had just pointed out a dropped mitten on the sidewalk. When someone shows you your mitten, you don’t tell them that it doesn’t actually fit or that you don’t really like the mitten. You certainly don’t act like you don’t need the mitten. You simply thank them. And so I thanked him without asking if he noticed how big my legs are or how terrible my haircut is. I did not ask him if he says this to all the American women in workout clothes and serious faces. I didn’t ask him if someone once told him about how American women have no idea how beautiful they are and so all that you have to do is tell them they look good. I did not act like I don’t need the approval of others, especially not male others. Nope, I just said thank you and continued walking home, reminded of my beauty. And he walked on with his friends, probably feeling like he did a good deed. Or maybe he walked on thinking something indecent and then quickly forgetting it all. Doesn’t matter.