Day Eleven

My list is giving me aches and pains today. There's a tweaky little area at the top of my shoulders from #9 (nearly an hour spent on that, which was FUN). I have an ache in my left ankle from the walk I took in pursuit of #56, although that might also have something to do with walking all over a college campus today in fabulous but not-so-practical boots. My shoulders are sore from raking two large-ish piles of leaves to fulfill today's tick mark on #63. And my head hurts from #6.

I didn't have much in mind when I wrote down my goal of reading books by new authors, except to supplement my beloved habit of reading the complete works of John Grisham, Michael Crichton, Terry Pratchett and Robin McKinley every few years. And maybe read (proportionately speaking) a little less chick lit. I certainly didn't expect to get my brain poked at by a suspiciously New-Agey looking title from the health food store. It's so New-Agey, in fact, that I'm probably not even going to give the name and author. Take the silliest parts of the women's movement of the 1970's and stir in a healthy dose of 21st-century pseudo-Eastern earth goddess nonsense, and you'll have the general idea. I'm not even sure why I bought the silly thing, but by the time I'd finished the first chapter I already had six pages dog-eared to come back to later. Among all the talk of energy and ancestors and psychic wounds, there was something that absolutely hit the nail on the head about the careless way women treat their bodies in the neverending pursuit of Doing It All, All At Once, and Looking Good While We Do It.

No wonder we're so tired.

So I guess maybe tonight I will go to bed a little earlier, and eat a better breakfast tomorrow, and try not to run myself into the ground. There are certainly worse goals to have.