Sweat. Eat. Love.

That's the plan at least. More likely just "Sweat. Sweat. Sweat."

SWEAT.

The end of my life of leisure [pronounced in the haughtiest Katherine Hepburn "leh-zure" way] while on self-prescribed sabbatical is rapidly approaching. My state license is in, an orientation is in the works, and I'm on the schedule for a very busy month of February. So haters can stop hating, I'll be hustling again soon enough.

Though I had big plans - photography lessons, acrylic painting, backing up all my files, exploring the Olympic Peninsula and the Puget Sound - I mostly just unpacked, tried to acclimate to the fog-and-mud life, and decided this was the year I was finally going to realize all of my athletic potential. A hail-mary attempt to reverse thirty three years of mostly dormant muscle and terrible posture. Maybe prevent the osteopenia/osteoporosis that is in my not-too-distant future if these trends continue [but not sure exactly what my scale wants me to do with the information that I am 4% bone].

Running. Personal Training. Hot Yoga. Snowshoe. Indoor Rock Climbing. My own personal boot camp [and daily dose of humility] to jump-start training for a half-marathon in August, inspired by a few very athletic friends [and the legend of a local octogenarian iron-woman skiing down a mountain on one broken leg]. Also a legitimate excuse to fuel an increasingly athleisure wardrobe and fulfill some latent desire to be Sporty Spice or the young scout Indiana Jones. REI has [stereotypically] become one of my favorite stores [except clothing... I still can't do zip-off pants or khaki] and I have big plans to take some outdoors classes and go on some skiing, hiking, biking, kayaking and camping excursions this year.

Inexorably I need someday to be able to do a pull-up, or some advanced yoga postures. For now I'll just stick to working on the discipline to not move when so much sweat is dripping down into my eyes it makes an audible sound on the mat. Which may happen in phase two.

(sw)EAT.

When I slapped together an itinerary through South East Asia for the latter half of the month, I somehow overlooked the fact that, while not the monsoon season, it will be upwards of 90 degrees and high humidity [at least in Cambodia], which I conveniently have blocked out of my memory how to survive in. I don't love sweating, [one reason I left the South and why I love rainy cold runs], and am spending way too much of my efforts failing to figure out the perfect minimalist sweat-wicking but easily washable and quick-drying but not ridiculously Rick Stevesian and preferably-all-black travel wardrobe. If I could be Beyonce and walk around in a caftan all day, I would.

There is no grand scheme for a life-transformation on this trip. No plans to convert to Buddhism or give up Western Medicine and never return to the States. Just going to keep my eyes and mind open and welcome the wild unknown. But mostly hang out with my brother and his wife and eat everything Anthony Bourdain has ever recommended.

All of my notes revolve around food and/or drink. Local variations on noodles, soup, pastries, and alcohol are dancing like sugar plums through my dreams. Ongoing adventures in exotic meats, to the chagrin of the azithromycin in my emergency kit. And because every world-traveler considers themselves an amateur food-blogger, I can't make any promises to the contrary, but I will strive to stay more in the moment and savor the experience rather than document. Even planning to take my first-ever cooking class so that when I return I can graduate from microwave chefery to slightly-too-good-to-end-up-on-worst-cooks-in-America. So that someday I can earn that cliche trip to Italy to make pasta.

LOVE.

Phase three is the hope that on my return I will be filled with ongoing optimism and overwhelming love for life. For the awesome things I get to do at my job, for the amazing people I meet along the way, and for the incredible natural bounty that surrounds me. I've never been good at wide-eyed, unfettered enthusiasm, so undoubtedly there will also be a healthy dose of sarcasm and reality, but hell, it's a new year and I can at least try to be more grateful.

For this opportunity, this restart. Of course I want this job to be a perfect fit. I want to put in a hard day's work and feel like I'm making a difference. To secretly sweat for all of my patients and their recoveries. To not feel so destroyed every time administration makes me prove I have the credentials to do what I can do.

Eyes-rolling-have-a-heart-attack-and-die-from-not-surprised, it would certainly be convenient to finally have that epic love love this time too. That equal. That confidant. That missing piece of the puzzle. I'll never get over the anxiety of dating. And here with lower numbers, the odds seem less than ever in my favor. But I've got high-apple-pie-in-the-sky hopes. Until then, there's Al Green.