This time last year I decided to keep track of everything I read in 2010. I'm not 100% confident that this is comprehensive, but it's close enough for government work. And yes, it's been gratifying to maintain a record of what I've read over the last twelve months. 


1. When You Reach Me - Rebecca Stead
2. The Good Soldiers - David Finkel
3. The Case of the Missing Servant - Tarquin Hall
4. The Lacuna - Barbara Kingsolver
5. Everything Matters! - Ron Currie, Jr.
6. Cooperstown Confidential - Zev Chafets
7. Good Without God - Greg Epstein
8. The Shipping News - Annie Proulx
9. What I Thought I Knew - Alice Eve Cohen
10. Wonder Boys - Michael Chabon
11. Moneyball - Michael Lewis
12. Nine Lives: Mystery, Magic, Death and Life in New Orleans - Dan Baum
13. The House on First Street - Julia Reed
14. Do You Know What It Means to Miss New Orleans?
15. Gumbo Tales: Finding My Place at the New Orleans Table - Sara Roahen
16. Why New Orleans Matters - Tom Piazza
17. Confederacy of Dunces - John Kennedy Toole
18. Manhood for Amateurs - Michael Chabon
19. The Yiddish Policemen's Union - Michael Chabon
20. House of Sand and Fog - Andre Dubus III
21. Magic Time - W.P. Kinsella
22. Ironweed - William Kennedy
23. Twilight - Stephanie Meyers
24. Tom Jones* - Henry Fielding
25. The Bedwetter - Sarah Silverman
26. The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo - Stieg Larsson
27. The Girl Who Played with Fire - Stieg Larsson
28. Shadow Tag - Louise Erdrich
29. Secrets of Eden - Chris Bohjahlian
30. The Art of Eating In: How I Learned to Stop Spending and Love the Stove - Cathy Erway
31. The Daily Coyote - Shreve Stockton
32. Food Matters - Mark Bittman
33. Steinbrenner: The Last Lion of Baseball - Bill Madden
34. The Brethren - John Grisham
35. Treasure Island - Robert Louis Stevenson
36. On With the Story - John Barth
37. How Did You Get This Number - Sloane Crosley
38. The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest - Stieg Larsson
39. The Tidewater Tales: A Novel** - John Barth
40. Tree of Smoke - Denis Johnson
41. Tales of a Female Nomad: Living At Large in the World - Rita Golden Gelman
42. Women, Food and God - Geneen Roth
43. The Hunger Games - Suzanne Collins
44. Artichoke Tales - Megan Kelso
45. Catching Fire - Suzanne Collins
46. Mockingjay - Suzanne Collins
47. The Happiness Project
48. Pack of Two** - Caroline Knapp
49. Let's Take the Long Way Home - Gail Caldwell
50. Drinking: A Love Story** - Caroline Knapp
51. The Merry Recluse** - Caroline Knapp
52. Freedom - Jonathan Franzen
53. The Help - Kathryn Stockett
54. If I Stay - Gayle Forman
55. The Diving Bell and the Butterfly - Jean-Dominique Bauby
56. Cold Sassy Tree - Olive Ann Burns
57. The Last Boy: Mickey Mantle and the End of America's Childhood - Jane Leavy
58. Ladies and Gentlemen, The Bronx is Burning** - Jonathan Mahler
59. The Discomfort Zone: A Personal History - Jonathan Franzen
60. A Woman in Berlin: Eight Weeks in the Conquered City - Anonymous
----
Right around here I ran out of library books and ended up re-reading a bunch of books, including:
61. The Hours** - Michael Cunningham
62. Name All the Animals** - Alison Smith
63. Girls in Trucks** - Katie Crouch
64. The House on First Street** - Julia Reed
65. Gumbo Tales: Finding My Place at the New Orleans Table** - Sara Roahen (these last two are particularly embarrassing because I just read them earlier this year. . . I was getting desperate)
----
66. Breaking Night: A Memoir of Forgiveness, Survival, and My Journey from Homeless to Harvard - Liz Murray
67. Rat Girl: A Memoir - Kristen Hersh
68. Pride and Prejudice** - Jane Austen


* I didn't actually finish Tom Jones, but decided that it should stay on the list because I made it through 700+ pages. Dunno why it was such a struggle--I enjoyed aspects of the book quite a bit, but cried uncle when I realized that it had taken me several weeks to get through the last two hundred pages or so. 


** These are re-reads, sometimes for a specific purpose, sometimes out of desperation. 
   

Went to see Black Swan last night with M & S. Holy fucking shite.





I never know what to expect when I'm going to see something that's garnered this much buzz. And Black Swan is particularly crazy because it really seems to have polarized the critics. Most of the reviews are overwhelmingly positive, but I've seen some that are vehemently anti-glowy. None are neutral. (I think this is my favorite comment so far, even though it reflects the author's snark more than it provides any insight into the experience of seeing the movie:

Print out a picture of the back of Natalie Portman's head, tape it to the center of your computer screen, and take a Google Street View tour of Manhattan. Presto, you've just made your own Black Swan!)

Anywho, I think the only other movie that has fucked with me so thoroughly was Dancer in the Dark. So many critics have offered some variation on the "let yourself get swept away with this story" theme, and I see why. By the time the credits rolled, I was gasping and clutching my stomach and trembling head-to-toe.

Don't get me wrong. I loved Black Swan. I think that it's brilliant and that Natalie Portman probably gave us the performance of her career with this one. But it is not what you'd call a feel good movie. Caveat emptor.

How did you cultivate a sense of wonder in your life this year? -- Author: Jeffrey Davis

Today's is by far my favorite prompt so far, and also the one about which I think I have the least to say. Oh the irony!  


I spend a lot of time thinking about wonder. Perhaps the prompt thrills me precisely because it reflects a quality I value deeply. As for the mechanics of wonderment? Reflection, gratitude, and connection.


Nurturing wonder has been a skill like any other -- for me, it began as a conscious exercise that I gradually internalized. Now this way of interfacing with the world is reflexive enough that its loss is one of my key early-storm-warning signs. As things have gotten darker and colder lately (both literally and emotionally), I've found myself needing to work a little more to catch those moments of delighted awe.


I think I mentioned in passing the other day that 2010 has brought me a deep sense of abundance, a feeling that I have enough. This translates into an unexpected well of contentment and tranquility -- oh-so-welcome, particularly given the turbulence of the past several months. I am sure that this is wonderment running deep.  

Pick one moment during which you felt most alive this year. Describe it in vivid detail (texture, smells, voices, noises, colors). -- Author: Ali Edwards

This one stymied me a little. One moment? I think I just mentioned how I dread having to pin down superlatives, and I think this is even trickier for someone who hasn't journaled/blogged consistently this year. It's easy for the moments to slide by unexamined, unremarked.

Anyway, I decided that I would just go ahead and select a vivid, lively moment to memorialize, whether or not it was the singular moment in which I felt most alive.

But enough with the meta, throat-clearing bullshite. On with the story . . .

Saturday, September 11, 2010. I'd just joined a new kayak and sailing Meetup group and was diving right in for the first gathering.

This was kind of a big deal for me. 2010 has been a year of letting go of a lot of material things -- I'd had to ditch my beloved Subaru in May and had just sold my darling kayak a few weeks prior (in large part because with no car I no longer had a way to get it to water). It felt like a lot of loss, although I tried to keep my perspective. (You know: "it's only stuff, it's only stuff," my soothing mantra).

We arranged to meet up at a boathouse on the Potomac. I was a little cowed by the logistics of getting to the river with all of my gear. But I definitely felt like a total badass, trekking over to Georgetown on my bike with my life vest and my carbon fiber bent-shaft paddle stuffed in the panniers. (I must say, learning to get around almost entirely by bike has been incredibly exhilarating. That's been one huge benefit of having my car shit the bed so unexpectedly). And then the awkward greetings and introductions and preliminaries. But eventually we made our way out onto the dock. The shop assistant took one look at my fancy paddle and steered me toward a beautiful long, skinny boat. I slid into position, a little self-conscious as always.

And then the water. My god, it had been at least a year since I'd been paddling! My first few strokes were tentative, wobbly, nearly graceless, but I got my groove in no time. I snugged my knees up under the deck and just glided down the river with no resistance. Soon I was pushing those long-dormant edging skills, losing myself in the motion and moment for long stretches until I'd catch another member of the group glancing my way and revert to feeling goofy.

This was one of those days that DCers believe is our just reward for suffering so much oppressively heinous humidity and heat. Around 80° with a sky so clear and blue that you could call it "cerulean" and not be resorting to cliché. The Potomac was cool and dark and nearly glassy until we passed under the Roosevelt bridge -- then the motorboat traffic kicked up enough of a chop to get things rocking.

About an hour and a half into the paddle, I ended up drifting in front of the Kennedy Center for a good ten minutes. For once, I wasn't stressing my soft upper arms or my Buddha belly. I felt so strong!, was so conscious of the power coursing through me. Elation and serenity in equal measure. That's all.

December 2: "What do you do each day that doesn’t contribute to your writing — and can you eliminate it?"

I'll confess that my initial, gut-level response to this prompt was on the snarky side. (I mean . . . I do quite a bit each day that doesn't contribute to my writing, at least not without resorting to a really high level of abstraction. Showering? Biking to work? Walking the dogs?)

But it turns out that I do have something to say here. I may not be much of a creative writer, and heaven knows that I don't blog consistently, but a substantial chunk of my lawyerly time is spent writing. And writing is my primary work product.

And I know, through much painful experience, that I tend to be an excruciatingly slow writer. A lot of this springs from my insatiable need for perfection. It's nearly impossible for me to just let loose and flow. Dunno if any of you are familiar with Bryan Garner, that legal writing extraordinaire, but I've heard him describe the optimal writing process as invoking four personas: madman, architect, carpenter, judge. I seem to be almost all judge. I agonize over every. last. word phrase construction etc. I tend to be so concerned with getting everything just right that I often don't get much of anything written at all.

Actually, this has as lot to do with the paucity of my blog postings, as evidenced by the astonishing number of draft posts that will never see the light of day because I never relax my standards enough to finish them. It manifests differently at work, of course, where I don't exactly have the luxury of total stasis. ("Umm, sorry about that brief that I never turned in. You see, I just couldn't get it written to my satisfaction." Yeah, doubt that would fly). The work version just involves a lot of hemming and hawing and overthinking every damn word that I put to paper, coupled with almost-inevitable panic as I approach a deadline and realize that my need for perfection has ensured a crunch at the back end.

So I keep thinking about that stupid aphorism (sorry, Voltaire!) about the perfect being the enemy of the good. Except in my case, it's more like the perfect is the enemy of the . . . anything. I'm working on that. Agreeing to participate in Reverb is a huge step in the right direction. I'm committed to getting something written every day, or just about every day, which surely means embracing my madman. Easing up a little and just writing. . .

Day One of Reverb 10. Excited, anxious, full of that nervous, thrumming energy I always get as I wade into a new creative project. (Never mind that I'm already a day behind, and am actually composing this on December 2. That's the magic of the interwebs: I'll backdate and no one will ever know. Well, except . . . nevermind).

Our prompt for today is One Word: "Encapsulate the year 2010 in one word. Explain why you’re choosing that word. Now, imagine it’s one year from today, what would you like the word to be that captures 2011 for you?"
Dear lord, do you understand how difficult it is for me to select just one of anything to elevate to "it" status? I get downright panicky when asked for superlatives. But I agreed to play, and this does strike me as a good place to start.

2010 in one word: Root.

"a part of the body of a plant that . . . grows downward into the soil, anchoring the plant and absorbing nutriment and moisture."

This year, for the first time in my adult life, I don't feel like a transient. I certainly have not committed to living in this city for the rest of my life, but I'm here for the foreseeable future. And I'm here affirmatively. This is where I've chosen to live and work and play and (theoretically) love. And perhaps more to the point, I'm not running toward anything. It's amazing how much that slowing down frees you up to live your life.

When I reflect back on pretty much any moment of at least the last decade, I'm struck by the impermanence of my then-current station in life. That's weirdly worded, but do you know what I'm saying? Most recently, it was the Never-Never Land of law school--and thank the gods on high that that is a fleeting state, because three years of law school is PLENTY. But that was three years of living somewhere temporary (and part-time, since I spent my summers elsewhere), during which every fibre of my being was aimed at a particular goal: get that degree. Then move on.

Okay, that goes with the territory. I had a similar experience during grad school a few years previous. And the years between the two programs were a kind of suspended animation: plenty of fun and certainly formative in their own right, but lacking any sense of rootedness. It's hard to envision that you're beginning a life when you're broke as a joke in a tiny, dank, dimly lit Manhattan studio, trying to figure out why your post-fancy-masters-degree job title and salary are the same as that you'd left before graduate school.

"to implant or establish deeply"

So snap back to 2010. At long last, I have all of the formal education I ever plan to inflict upon myself. (IMO, the fact that I now view formal education as more of a burden than the privilege it really is is the surest sign that I'm done). I have a great career. For the most part, I have a great life. And I am fully inhabiting my Now. Here I am.

I'm putting down roots. I feel as though I belong. This manifests in silly ways, too: I finally gave up my NY domicile, voter registration and driver's license after clinging stubbornly for several years. For the first time in my adult life, I have established relationships with a primary care physician, gynecologist, dentist, endocrinologist, and hairdresser in the same city. I belong to a CSA, which I can do now that I live in the same place throughout the growing season. I've gotten to know many of my neighbors. I belong to a private dog park (which fact also belongs on the Top Indications that I've Become a Damned Yuppie list)
 
So 2010 has been the year to root. I hope and pray for 2011 to be the year of harvest. Lately, I've been struck by this sense of abundance-almost-realized in my life. I say this with much gratitude for all of my good fortune: I've worked really effing hard--professionally, physically, spiritually, interpersonally--to create the life I'm living, and in 2011 I hope to realize a plentiful crop in return.   

Well, this poor blog has lain fallow for 2010. More or less -- I have been keeping a running log of the books I read this year, in anticipation of a year-end summary post. I really love the December impulse toward introspection and summation. . . As I worked on my 2009 reflections last January, I realized that mindfully tracking something like my annual reading would go a long way toward guiding my New Year musings.

Which is why I was so immediately drawn to the Reverb 10 project. I signed up as soon as I read Shauna's blurb about it. 31 days has December. 31 prompts. 31 daily essays, all with the (somewhat vague) overarching theme of reflection on the year past and manifestation of what's to come. This is a bit ambitious for a fickle, inconstant blogger such as myself, but I'm making the commitment to myself.

So stay tuned. It's about to get a lot more lively up in these parts.

You know what I strongly dislike?

I really really strongly dislike when men pull the sneaky surprise date move. Allow me to illustrate (although I'm sure the explanation is unnecessary, as it's happened to almost everyone who dates men. This shit is epidemic):

I met a man at work last week. My mentor and I stopped downstairs for coffee and ran into this guy, an employee of our agency and casual friend of hers. We made small talk, discovered we knew some of the same people (not uncommon in this incestuous field of mine) and that we had both earned our masters degrees from the same program (albeit about 20 years apart). I gave him my card . . . which is what you do when you're a few months into your new career and making new professional acquaintances.

Nothing about this interaction said "romance" -- he's a coworker, and he's significantly older (like, 25 years). It literally never crossed my mind that this was anything but a new work connection. He emailed me a short time later and suggested that we go out to lunch sometime this week. Again, nothing unusual. In fact, he went out of his way to explain that he always takes new employees out, and that he wanted to pick my brain about the suitability of a girlfriend of a mutual acquaintance.

Okay, as I'm typing this, I'm beginning to feel like a fool, like perhaps it was screamingly obvious where this was headed. . . but I'd sooner assume that my stupid, beer-guzzling, racist uncle was coming on to me than this dude. Suffice it to say that it was not on my radar.

So we go to lunch, and it's creepily date-ish. Over the top. He wants to take my arm walking to and from the restaurant. Insists on opening all of the doors. Helping me with my coat. Paying for the meal. And so on. Talks about the two of us going out this weekend with that acquaintance and said girlfriend. But here's the thing: STILL postures about giving me Agency advice and making professional connections, never comes right out and says that he's got lovin' on his mind. Which leaves me in that awkward awkward limbo. I feel like a self-involved bimbo for presuming that he's interested when he's not explicitly said so and when there are totally reasonable, plausible explanations for his every move.

And yet. . .

Yet I'm also totally on edge, uncomfortable, creeped out, and not enjoying myself in the slightest little bit.

Anyway, that's probably where it would have remained, except that my mentor came into my office this afternoon, closed the door, and tried to gauge the temperature. (She's a god-send, that one!) Turns out that he called her right after we met to ask all kinds of questions about me and happened to mention how attractive he found me. She wasn't about to meddle, but I think that she wanted to give me a heads-up, particularly when she heard that he'd taken me to lunch.

So, I recognize that I should just laugh this off -- not a big deal, right? But it infuriates me. Men seem to do this all the time: orchestrate one-on-one meetings which they bend over backward to set up as Not Dates, and then expect you to just fall into their arms once the two of you are alone. (These men, incidentally, often seem to be the ones who make up the Nice Guys Finish Last chorus, which fact perhaps helps explain my irrational anger. That cliché annoys the ever-loving piss out of me).

How difficult would it have been to call me up and ask me on a date straight away? I could have politely declined, and no one would be the worse for wear. It's still not the end of the world -- I'm just going to have to *gulp* be a grownup and have one of those dread uncomfortable conversations. But the whole scenario has left me a bit creeped out, inexplicably angry, and unfortunately wanting zero contact with someone who could and should be a lovely work friend.


------------------------------------------------

Now I'm just going to be bitchy. When did it become socially acceptable for a man old enough to have sired me (at a respectable age, no less) to make a play? I mean, dude is RETIRING this week. For the love. . .

Today was one of those quietly spectacular days.

You know the sort --

I got up extra early, and felt as though I had the city to myself. Stepped out into that icy, spectral hush and discovered my first CSA delivery waiting on the front porch.

Made it to the gym by 6:30 and did a really challenging spin class before work, then got in to the office 20 minutes early.

Where I was quietly, effortlessly efficient.

Went to Weight Watchers and learned that I had lost 3.6 lbs this week.

After work, took the pups for a long, meandering stroll over the public library to pick up the books I had on hold.

Came home, cooked a lovely, simple dinner with some of my fresh-from-the-farm vegetables.

So you see, really quite unremarkable, but nearly perfect from end to end. And now I leave you with a peek at my pile of delicious, now that it's all unpacked.

Ah me, now I can post from my trusty and ever-present iPhone. Who else anticipates a drop in productivity?


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

I am in a foul, steaming funk. My beloved little blue bike was stolen from INSIDE my garage (and yes, before you ask, it was chained and locked). I'm not even certain when it happened – I'm so discombobulated from the move and all the travel, and it still wasn't routine for me to notice it locked in place...it wasn't until I went out to hop on for a ride around the Hill this morning that I realized it was gone.

I know it's just a bike and all, and I try to stay breezy about my "stuff" (like, if I adopt a blasé easy come, easy go attitude, maybe the 'easy come part will materialize). But I'm pretty upset, dammit. I only had her for a year, almost to the day. This was the nicest bike I've ever owned, and I tricked her out with fenders and a rack and panniers and head- and taillights, the whole shebang. I'd really come to love scooting around town on two wheels. It's going to be a good long while before I can afford to replace her with anything near as nice – and should I bother? if it's just going to be stolen the moment I turn my back.

Grumble. This sucks! 

Here's some stuff around town that I want to hit up:


The Places We Live

In 2008, for the first time in human history, more people lived in cities than in rural areas. One-third of these urban dwellers—more than one billion people—resided in slums. That number is expected to rise substantially: the United Nations forecasts that the number of slum dwellers will double to two billion people within the next 25 years. Poverty is urbanizing at breakneck speed, and there are few overarching plans to address how cities can accommodate this rapid influx of humans.

The Places We Live compels viewers to consider what it means to live in a city in the 21st century. In a multimedia installation, visitors are admitted into the homes of 20 different families in four slums around the world.

 The Places We Live is a collection of the voices and reflections of some of the people living in the world’s fastest-growing human habitat—slums. These are the places we live.

Bittersweet Harvest: The Bracero Program 1942 - 1964

Through photographs and audio excerpts from oral histories, this exhibition will examine the experiences of bracero workers and their families while providing insight into Mexican American history and historical context to today's debates on guest worker programs. Begun in 1942 to fill labor shortages in agriculture and the railroads caused by World War II, the bracero program eventually became the largest guest worker program in U.S. history. Small farmers, large growers, and farm associations in California, Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, Arkansas, and 23 other states hired Mexican braceros to provide manpower during peak harvest and cultivation times.

Darwin's Legacy/ Since Darwin: The Evolution of Evolution

November 2009 marks the 150th anniversary of the 1859 publication of Charles Darwin’s groundbreaking On the Origin of Species.  His theory of evolution by natural selection grew out of his work as a naturalist aboard the H.M.S. Beagle on a five year journey around South America and the Galápagos Islands. Darwin’s theory soon found supporters at the Smithsonian, including Joseph Henry, the first Secretary of the Smithsonian Institution, and it continues to guide research at the National Museum of Natural History.

Celebrate with us the 200th anniversary of Charles Darwin’s birth and the 150th anniversary of the publication of his groundbreaking On the Origin of Species. This exhibition focuses on the significant role that Darwin’s theories have played in explaining and unifying all the biological sciences.  Specimens from the Museum’s diverse collections, along with documentation from our ongoing research, illustrate the importance of evolution as a scientific foundation, and how our knowledge of evolution has evolved over the last 150 years.

The Palace of Wonders

Burlesque! 'Nuff said.

My name is Scarlet. Or, at least, that's what I go by around these parts. Some people know me as Jolie, and that's cool too. Come find me hanging with the bluebird: @nov3mbergirl.

I'm a 30-something gypsy wannabe, recently transplanted to Capitol Hill. I pass my workweeks making lawyer noises for the federal government and spend the rest of my time cavorting about my new hometown with or without my two beloved mutts.

My interests include urban biking, fresh local produce, baseball, yoga, kayaking, pleasure reading, running, music, dilettante knitting, spirituality, sex and roller derby. This is a blog about all of that stuff, as well as anything else that tickles my fancy.

Thanks for playing!

(I should probably add that my blog title comes from "Mercy Street," Peter Gabriel's beautiful, haunting song about the poet Anne Sexton. The specific lyric is:

confessing all her secret things in the warm velvet box
to the priest, he's the doctor, he can handle the shocks

This is not meant to be deep, nor is it some secret coded message to telegraph that I'm suicidal (I'm not). I simply find the imagery lovely and am not very good at coming up with names to slap on something like this).

Is there anybody out there?

I've now lost almost 15 lbs since mid-April, and something crazy just occurred to me: that means that I've lost about half of the weight that I put on in law school.



Crazy, right? This 30 pounds has become so...talismanic, a symbol of everything I was dissatisfied with in my life. It doesn't seem plausible that something which has caused me such anguish for 2 1/2 years (give or take) can be so quickly eradicated.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not beating myself up at all. There was no way that I had the focus and energy and optimism to tackle this while I was still in the maelstrom of school. (I would have used a less dramatic/more colorful work, but I've already figured out that the SparkGods will chastise me for doing so. Sigh). There's a reason why law school practically has its own entry in the DSM IV. We all ended up a little mentally ill during the journey, and I wore my proof around my middle (and my butt, and my face, and my upper arms...). As Raspberryberet put it yesterday, our colleagues already look so different after a few weeks away from the stress - and this is with the bar exam still looming!

Anyway, I have no intention of stopping when I reach my magic pre-law school point. I wasn't at my optimal weight when I got here, and had already crept a decent ways beyond my healthiest, fittest self. It's just that when I got to Michigan, I was a more or less healthy woman who could stand to shed a few pounds...but I quickly became a chubmeister who was embarrassed to have her picture taken and had to buy all new clothes (several times, I might add). It's really affirming to realize that I've undone half of that damage in a little over a month's time.

I've been wanting to try out this recipe for blackened salmon for a while, but I'm sort of finicky about my fish. I like to buy wild-caught fresh stuff, and, well, that's tough to come by in Michigan. But today I dashed into Whole Paycheck to see what they had, and lo! It's time for the Copper River catch!

The Copper River king salmon are, by far, the best fish in the world. I'm not even kidding. (I paid 29.99/lb. for this shiznit*, so really – not kidding). The river is long and wild and icy and it makes for salmon with the most beautiful deep red, firm flesh and really high omega-3 oils. Soooo good...

I raced home to whip up the recipe. It's really simple, assuming you have a good spice collection. 15 minutes later, I had these stunning blackened filets with the crispy skin just falling off and zomg yum!!!!

Not that I ever really went anywhere. But the disruptions of the last week meant that I was sort of MIA on the interwebs, and I just wanted to check in to confirm that I am still truckin'.

Graduation was lovely. Exhausting, surreal, but wonderful. My family was supportive and proud and everyone behaved beautifully. The good sparking news is that despite falling down on my goal of tracking my nutrition, I still lost another 2 pounds. I'm officially more than 1/4 of the way to my (admittedly arbitrary) goal.

Gameplan for the week ahead is to get back to tracking, get back to working out, and get over this vicious sinus infection that hit me like a Mack truck (the 7th one since the fall, if my counting is correct).

This morning I saw one of last month's featured DailySpark posts about running the supermarket gauntlet. I'm not gonna lie - the article was pretty hilarious, and for all the wrong reasons. Perhaps I'm unsympathetic since most of the traps just aren't traps for me: no kiddies to grab at expensive, sugary cartoon-character food product; rarely tempted by bright seasonal displays filled with pricey, crappy junk; expensive "eye level" products artfully placed by marketing schemers aren't actually eye level for this shorty. . . But it did make me recall one very smart bit of grocery shopping advice I picked somewhere (wish I could remember where for proper attribution):

Try to buy the bulk of your food from the outside aisles in the supermarket.

Wowsa! Do you realize how much sense that makes? The outermost aisles tend to contain most of the whole foods, from produce to dairy (and I guess meat for all of your friendly neighborhood carnivores, although I've been a veggie since long before I was doing my own grocery shopping). This has always stuck with me, and it's been one of those healthy lifestyle habits I've tried to maintain even as most of the others flew out the leaded-glass law school window.

Okay, I just updated my measurements for the week and learned that I have lost 1.5 inches off my waist and 2 off my hips. I didn't even know that was possible?! Talk about motivation to work out more - I respond very well to the positive feedback loop.

So, today is my one week anniversary on SparkPeople. I'm pretty delighted. Even in the midst of exams, my motivation is still high, I registered a nice loss this week, and never once went into deprivation mode. This is not to say that it's been perfect. I didn't do any of my strength training, didn't work out nearly as much as I would have liked, and had a less than ideal eating day yesterday. Still, my journey is very much about mental health (healthy inside->healthy outside, at least as far as I'm concerned) and I refuse to beat myself up. This was definitely a positive beginning, so I'll just take note of the areas where I'd like to improve and go right on celebrating the successes.

As for yesterday's food situation. . . it was actually a low calorie day, but there was precious little food in my food. I was in a pretty dire bare cupboards situation. I mean, if the apocalypse came and I'd needed to survive off of what was in the house, it would have been a while before I started eyeing the cat. There were plenty of calorie sources, but it was all random rice and cans of green curry and tomato paste. Not a scrap of fresh produce and not much of anything else to compose an actual meal. Anyway, I guess my non-scale victory was that I didn't freak out, just quietly accepted that I'd had better days. And went grocery shopping. :)