Call me a nearly 40-year-old rebel, but there’s something about the word “should” that makes my skin crawl.

There are lots of things I like doing and some that I even love doing. But add “should” or “ought to” in front of them and suddenly I feel hemmed in, restricted, disinterested. I should spend 15 minutes working on my blog. I ought to work on that sock I meant to finish last month. Nope. I have other things to do — like wash the kitchen floor — that are more pressing.

I don’t know why that is except that I struggle with authority, even when that authority is my own. Who are you, or I, to tell me what to do?

So instead I work to abolish the word “should” from my vocabulary when I talk to myself, much like one might when talking to a reactionary toddler or teenager. I want to be able to cross exercising off today’s to-do list. I’ll be glad to have written a blog post. Finishing these socks will free up some needles so I can cast on something new.

Many times (and more and more often, since I realized the problem) the rephrasing/re-envisioning works. But other times I dig in my heels and say, who’s gonna make me? (I can be a real spoiled brat sometimes.)

And while I should be firm with myself and ought to have consequences for not following through on desired actions, we all know how that’s going to turn out…

A three-day weekend ought to mean tons of accomplishments, be they fun or necessary, but I feel like mine fell short, but that may be because it did not include the 40 bazillion things I always want to fit into my weekends.

We started the weekend with a night at the ballpark and a Mets victory over the hometown Nationals. We biked home via Barracks Row, where we heard the final song, with cannon fire, from the Marines’ band concert, and the Capitol grounds.

On Saturday, we slept in and took a leisurely approach to the day, which is probably where I fell down the rabbit hole of time. We went to our first same-sex marriage ceremony, a couple of cycley friends of Rudi’s, where we had a nice time, where I got to meet someone I “know” via social media, and where I came away with a literal bucketful of purple and blue flowers. I also finished knitting a pair of socks.

On Sunday, I hit the farmers market, where the highlight was vanilla peach jam, swam, and harvested tomatoes and basil from our garden. Caprese sandwiches (featuring the aforementioned garden veg) and corn on the cob comprised our traditional Sunday dinner.

And today was more of the same: swimming (one last time before they closed the pool), gardening (we planted some arugula and chard where we yanked up kale yesterday), and hung out at the park with cold drinks as the sun sank into the distance.

I fell down on the writing program during the first week, when I was in Salt Lake and struggled to catch up while not getting further behind on week two, which essentially meant I sat, paralyzed, staying frantically at the assignments each day. Ultimately, I pulled myself together before week three started, finished up the missing week one work, and began anew with week two, seven days behind the rest of my cohort, but still working and writing, which is probably the key thing to keep in mind. (Incidentally, if you’d like some help establishing a writing practice or just want some help in being accountable to yourself for your writing practice, the next Write Now session begins Sept. 30 and I highly recommend it.)

Similarly, Laurie Halse Anderson, author of the award-winning Speak, has declared September to be a month for writing fifteen minutes a day (#wfmad on Twitter), and since that was my original goal with Amanda’s program, I shall make doubly sure I’m getting it done by committing to writing 15 minutes a day on the blog. (Admittedly, some posts may not require that much work, so I’ll add on to those days by working on some longer posts for publication on other days. (Remember when I did things here like review books?)

In addition to writing, the week ahead holds sauce making (and maybe pasta making if I can get my hands on some semolina flour), outdoor showings of The Avengers and Casablanca (on different nights; that would be a weird double feature!), and a picnic at the Yards. I’m also hoping to finish reading a book and resume knitting on either my shawl or a short-sleeved sweater. Oh! And sign up for fall volleyball. I’ve got to get that taken care of, too!

(Weekending, plus, with Amanda.)

Significant events inspire momentous change.

Folk singer Ellis Paul wrote a song when he and his wife were expecting their first child, “Nine Months to Fix the World,” that talked about his need to make the world a better place for his new infant. Ebeneezer Scrooge saw the past and the future and decided to turn his life around.

My event is neither so significant as a pregnancy nor my change so momentous as a complete 180 in my life. But it is somewhat important — at least to me:

Six months from today I turn 40.

And I want to be a different sort of 40-year old than the adult I’ve become.

A couple years back it occurred to me suddenly that my teen self would be highly unimpressed with the thirtysomething me. Oh, she’d give me props that I’d made it this far. I was a depressed kid and could never visualize an adulthood for myself, so to be approaching 40 would have been significant from that perspective.

But what I’ve done with the past 20 years would not have impressed her. I’ve spent far too much time coasting, treading water, allowing my life to be shaped by the currents around me, rather than being an active player in it. Sure, I have Rudi and my family and friends, some for decades now, who give my life flavor. I’ve done a couple of things in my professional life that are worth counting in the positive column, and certainly the organizations I’ve worked for have done good works.

But I’ve allowed any dreams I had as a teenager to wilt. And I haven’t planted new ones to replace them. I haven’t worked hard to improve the world around me.

So I’ve been taking steps to right my course. I started playing volleyball again once a week. I’ve been exercising more, trying to bike places more and to eat better (most days).

And when an online friend decided to offer a course aimed at improving your writing practice, after some deliberation and angst (and nausea), I signed up. I’m three days in and just received the assignment for tomorrow. In it, Amanda included a quote from author Anne Lamott, who mused about how the act of writing is its own reward. And suddenly I remembered I used to feel that way. I haven’t in a long time (although I do sometimes love having composed something). And I’ll be interested to see if I will again.

So I’ll be writing 15 minutes a day five days a week for the next while in an effort to see if putting pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) has a place in my life.

Because, honestly, if I don’t, if writing doesn’t hold a spark for me anymore, it’s time to let it go as a dream and to figure out what I do love.

Because life is too short — and too long — to keep doing things unquestioned or to stay the course when a change in direction will lead to a better destination.

Forty isn’t the end of the road, but it is a pretty good mile marker.

I’ve got six months to make my teen self proud. Starting … now.

I told myself not to forget the thing that early in the week I thought would make a good addition to this list. But as so often happens, it slipped my mind. It’s a possibility it will come back as I write, that my memory is locked in my fingertips somehow and it will burst forth into the keyboard any moment now. It’s also possible that it will return after I hit post, just to laugh at me, Nelson-style. Or perhaps it’s flitted off into the ether, leaving only its echo behind to mock me.

But with it or without it, I offer you a list of three beautiful things from my past week:

1. A beautiful, sunny, unseasonably temperate Sunday afternoon in August spent with Rudi at the pool, in the garden, and sprawled on a blanket in the park.

2. Rudi’s friend Chris won tickets to a Nationals game and invited us to join him at the park. The seats were close enough to the field that we could see Bryce Harper’s every grimace, that one of the coaches traded a baseball for a snack from the kid sitting in front of us, and that the ball girl was wearing a white sports bra under her jersey. I mean, if you’re close enough to pick up on someone’s undergarment choice, you’re close.

3. My best friend of 22+ years (Wow. I hadn’t done the math recently. We are old!) suggested that I could call her if I found myself without other occupation on Saturday night. Honestly, a couple hours with her on the phone is better than almost any other way I could spend an evening, save, of course, for spending it with her in person.

Nope, it didn’t come back. But those three are good, too, don’t you think?

How about you? What can you recall that’s been beautiful in your world this week?

This was a full weekend before a full week:

On Friday night, we joined John and Nicole at The Yards for a picnic in the breeze off the water. Kids shrieked as they ran through the pool and we could hear the band off in the distance.

On Saturday, our lazy day of the weekend, we watched the penultimate stage of the Tour de France live, rather than a rebroadcast. I knit on my shawl and did a load of laundry. We went to Glen’s Market for lunch, then biked down to the garden to water. We finished the day by picking up Sarah and her friend Allison for some tailgating before a concert up in Maryland. It was Fun., with Tegan and Sarah opening for them. The crowd was upbeat, liberal, and young, and the venue was packed. Fun. said that it was the biggest crowd they’d ever played before, and they seemed a bit awe-struck at the power they wielded from the stage. Their show was energetic, and so was the twice-soaked crowd after two waves of rain poured down on the lawn seats.

On Sunday, there was the farmers market. There also was DC Scoop, an ice cream festival at Union Market.

(This is an ice cream sandwich from my festival favorite, Milk Cult. It’s milk & honey ice cream on a cornflake crust. Delicious!)

I spent the entire afternoon there, shopping at the various vendors inside and out, and then biked home with two pints of raspberries, a (mini) baguette, and a bouquet of sunflowers in my basket. I would have felt quite Parisian if I’d had a chance to pedal leisurely. Instead, I raced against a thunderstorm that never materialized into rain, leaving me sodden from the effort and the humidity.

We finished the weekend with these guys:

That’s a Davy Jones-less (obviously) Monkees. They goofed around, they sang hits and deeper cuts (Rudi was particularly pleased to get seven songs from Head.), and they interacted with the audience. I thought the show might be a bit somber, but it wasn’t. It was just a lot of fun and filled with people singing along to songs they’ve loved for decades.

(Writing along with Amanda’s weekly recap.)

Nan asked for the strawberry fool recipe and I figured others might be interested, too, since it’s so easy to make. (Honestly, it’s so simple, I thought “fool” referred to who was qualified to make it, but the etymology doesn’t seem to support that.)

Also, I know I copied this from somewhere 15 years ago or so, but my notecard doesn’t offer any insight to the source. So know the recipe is not mine.

Strawberry Fool
(serves 4 reasonable portions or 2 generous ones)

1 1/2 c strawberries
2-3 Tbs sugar
2/3 c heavy cream
2/3 c plain yogurt

Wash, de-stem, and slice the strawberries. Put in bowl and season with sugar. (If you can do this a little before the rest of the steps, you’ll get a smoother dish, but it’s delicious either way.)

Whisk the cream until whipped.

Add yogurt to the berries. Mash the berries. (I use a fork.) Your goal isn’t to end up with a smooth consistency, just to make them less solid.

Fold in the cream.

Add more sugar if necessary. (If you have quality, in-season strawberries, you probably won’t need more.)

Enjoy!