max out my roth IRA

In 2008 and 2009, my gross annual income was US$2,700.  In pesos, that shakes out to over 100,000 pesos annually, which sounds a bit more liveable. 

Given this context, a contribution of US$5000 to a retirement account over the span of 12 short months seemed daunting, but in 2010 I worked constantly, maintained some of my Dominican spending habits (rice and beans, anyone?) and squirreled away my pennies.  Come November, I'd maxed that mo-fo out. And, if we say 2050 is my target retirement date and use 8% as the average annual return (let's just be optimistic so the potential for this money sounds more impressive, thus encouraging me to continue saving, albeit under assumption of unrealistic returns :) we could (unreasonably) expect this 5 grand to turn into $108,622.61!  I'm rich!

Inputs
Current Principal:	$	5000
Annual Addition:	$	0
Years to grow:		40
Interest Rate:		8 %
Compound interest time(s) annually
Make additions at start end of each compounding period
Results
Future Value:	$	108,622.61

break my celibacy streak with someone special.

Using a complex sentence structure for a goal is not my best move. 

independent clause: break my celibacy streak (check)
dependent clause: with someone special  (eh...)
 

get a massage

My tendencies lie not in moderation, and in the five years since I graduated from college I have never had a "real" job, but rather a series of lifestyles that have supported me financially: international researcher, staff member at a residential school, Peace Corps volunteers, live-in therapist and now trainer of Peace Corps volunteers.  I am not good about taking time away from my "work," but with much planning and second guessing, I brought the rental car (and myself) down the mountain last weekend for 40 hours of rest after 21 days straight of  working in the field with 25 trainees.  I love my job and  felt a mix of guilt an exhilaration while I swooped down the mountain roads last Friday night with my dear friend Shauna (see "drink too much" post below) and Jo, the 70-something nurse in charge of the physical well-being of our trainees.  We talked men, marriage (Jo proposed that marriage should be made of a series of short-term contracts, signed by both partners independently every 2 to 7 years, to avoid complacency in the relationship), immigration, and careers.  We dropped Jo off at her place and Shauna and I treated ourselves to a swanky dinner at Bobs. A little after midnight, I quietly rolled in with calla lilies and rose bushes in tow, up to 6B (aka the Bella Vista Sorority), where Kate was already asleep. 

Saturday morning we had a quick catch-up in the morning over discussions about appropriate attire for judging a business plan competition, and Kate threw in oh-so-casually that she had made me an appointment at a local spa for 1pm.  She knew I would never make that appointment.  She knows I would've turned her down if she'd asked (so she didn't).  And she knew I needed it.  My girlfriends have spoiled me for any future partner. 

And so I went.  And I thought about Constanza, about my trainees, about the things that needed to get done the first 45 minutes while knots were needed out of my muscles.  But the last 15 minutes, I watched my thoughts and my beloved trainees float further away and my mind got very, very quiet.  Ahhhh.....thanks, Kate.  And accomplished another goal to boot.  May need to re-accomplish this one once we finish training next Saturday.

drink too much

My body abhors alcohol. We used to get along just fine, but as any adolescent female can attest, your former friends can become your most dangerous enemies. Sometimes, though, I really think she's changed and I remember how it used to be, back in college. We used to stay up all night. I felt so comfortable with her and she brought something out in me that no one else could, but things went sour around 2005 when our lighthearted trysts began leaving me in messy heaps on the floor, my digestive tract suffering from a severe case of vertigo.

In 2006, she and I briefly reconciled and were getting along fabulously over a dinner of Peruvian guinea pig and alpaca meat, but the bitch turned on me about 2am and left me under a comforter for two days, recovering in a cold Cuzcan hostel. We've had smaller run-ins the past few years that have further crystallized our frenemy status. So I have taken my mother's advice regarding all shifty friends, and am very polite to her in public, but limited my contact to the bare minimum that is necessary to avoid an awkward social situation (usually 2 drinks over the course of the evening).

This preventative two drink policy has guided me through a healthy mid-20's though it occasionally creates the impression that I am far more responsible and bland than I actually am (or think myself to be). Hence, my goal to invite my old assailant in for one evening of youthful and imprudent decision making.

Last night, I went out with a group of Peace Corps volunteers and, flooded with familiar experiences and great respect for the people occupying the plastic chairs around me, decided to let my generosity of spirit overflow and approach alcohol with open arms. A few hours and a dozen or two liters of Presidente Lite later, the whole group was jovial and we headed home. Shauna and I retired to the couch, catching up and swapping stories as my head began to ache and my stomach revolt. I slowly migrated from an upright seated position into a more reclined posture, with my bum off the couch and my neck now nestled in the throw pillows where my rear had been only a few hours before. The fingers on my left had also found a sweet spot near my left temple that, when pressed hard enough, kept the throbbing away. Shauna, ever perceptive and diplomatic, commented, "you look exhausted" and I suggested we make some late night pb&j to calm the waves in my stomach. The sandwich, along with a cold shower, an Excedrin, and a good tooth brushing, raised my confidence that I could get into bed and maintain full control of my body for the duration of the evening.

Woke up this morning with a craving for greasy carbs and a nap, but pleased to have maintained my aplomb after a night of dancing with my devil. Glad to have done it, glad to have crossed it off the list and glad to return to my responsible and bland self.

accept an invitation i would rather decline

100 word summary:

(1)Friday.

(2)4am alarm.

(3)Cold water shower.

(4)Intercept 5am bus, doze.
(5)Arrive in Constanza. Counterpart unavailable.

(6)Plan B: Small talk, small talk.

(7)Knocking on doors, drinking coffee, gossip, working.

(8)Lunch, around town on back of a motorcycle.

(9)Introductions, explaining, listening, soliciting support. Local politics. Hot sun.

(10)He's where? Which house? Over there? Turn here. Hold on.

(9)Go for a walk. Boiled potato dinner with eggs.

(8)Catch up with counterpart, work. Then the invitation...

(7)Basketball tournament, 9pm, join us. Go Kings!

(6)Body tired, excuses quickly forming and

(5)I would rather decline but

(4)reconsider and accept invitation.

(3)Laughter and music

(2)we cheer

(1)enjoyed

The air in the mountains had cooled and as bodies fill the warehouse-like gym. The interior temperature quivers around that perfect comfortable range. Maria (my counterpart), her two daughters and I find a place among adolescents and young adults that these women have known since birth. Lots of cheek kisses and introductions over the music, announcers, and buzz from the crowd. The first half of the game is calm, punctuated with explosions of sound from the King's pep band, which consists of four drums and a brass section of three vuvuzela-like contraptions. Enthusiasm is high for this first game in the championship series. The local tournament has been going on every weekend for a couple months, and the field has been narrowed to two teams: the Kings (last year's champions, featuring #16, a local athletic hero) and the Blue Team, whose name I didn't catch, but had a noticeably more modest following. Since my hosts are clearly Kings fans, I celebrate with them the King's early lead though I'm secretly rooting for the underdogs. While the girls catch up with their peers and flirt, Maria is enthralled with the game and participates by extending her arms and wiggling her fingers to jinx the Blue team's free throws. Her system seems to successfully thwart the opponent's shot about 50% of the time and successfully embarrass her younger daughter 100% of the time. Around half-time, I begin to yawn, running through all of the reasons I have to be exhausted. As the second half of the game progresses, the Blue team picks up their pace. They are ahead for a few minutes, and their humble fan base gets noisier. Kings fans seem confused. Since we are seated behind the scoreboard, Maria sends a pre-pubescent boy to descend the bleachers every couple minutes and return with a current score. While neither team boasts a strong defensive strategy, these scores are often outdated by the time our gopher returns with his reports. Really, though, the exact score is irrelevant. Both teams keep within three points of each other for the last 1/3 of the game, passing off the lead. Eventually the fans can no longer sit, and everyone is on their feet with the exception of a middle-aged man in a light blue oxford shirt and black slacks, who falls to the ground on his stomach, pounding the polished boards with fists and kicking his shiny leather shoes into the floor with delight each time the Blue team scores. Other fans leave the bleachers and begin to pace the sidelines. The coaches are now shouting orders to the teams from on the court, pulled closer to their players by the tied score and the increased noise from the crowd. The security team that looked so young and relaxed 15 minutes ago spreads out and surrounds the court to keep fans off. They stand with legs apart, gripping their guns and billy clubs tighter, and puff up their camouflage-covered bodies with increased authority and attentiveness. Calls are challenged, players rotated out for minor infractions and finally, with a missed final shot at the buzzer launched from half-court by the Kings point guard, the Blue team wins the first game of the championship series. Their fans storm the court while we, the Kings fans, head to our cars and begin our analysis of the game. I walk through the cold black air with Maria and her daughters, grateful for this evening with them.

in preparation for the summer

During a slow but apparently thoughtful evening 4.5 years ago, I jotted down some life goals in a notebook. A year or two later, I was grudgingly sorting through old papers in my parents' house (because their home is NOT my "personal storage unit") and found the list lying dormant among lined pages of outdated to-do lists, anonymous phone numbers, travel arrangements and half-baked lesson plans. A few items on said list were revised and the updated list securely archived in my e-mail account.

Four and a half years later, a surprising number of items on that quiet list have been accomplished: pay off my college debt by age 24; spend at least three consecutive months on all six inhabitable continents (4/6); provide a child with a home, even for just a little while; become fluent in Spanish. Others have been veto'd (get my teaching certification, sew something I'd wear in public) or still not accomplished (become functional in a 3rd language, go SCUBA diving, flip a property). Point is, writing them down seems to be important. Though I have traded the poetry of the pen for the efficiency of the typed word, this blog and the preparation that has gone into it serve a similar purpose: a space to develop, challenge and clarify myself and use goal-setting to align my actions and decisions with my clearer values.

Bucket Lists are popular now, but the problem with Before-I-Die lists, whether mine or those of pubescent boys on MTV, is that we don't know when our time runs out. And for a chronically short-sighted twenty-seven-year-old with a life expectancy of 90+ years, the time frame is unfathomable. The Day Zero Project offers a shorter commitment filled with sexy palindromes perfect for those of my demographic: 101 goals in 1001 days. And because I come from a culture that makes entirely too much fuss about birthdays ending in zero, my list of 101 goals has a deadline of my thirtieth birthday. To invoke the imagery of Lew Wallace, I hope this exercise serves as a tool of self-preparation for the summer of my life.