I've been thinking about the concept of memory, especially after recently interviewing an artist whose work deals with nostalgia and memory. He describes fond memories as "siren's songs," in light of their allure and ultimate inaccessibility. That's an especially apt description. While walks down memory lane are often irresistible, they can also lead to a certain dissatisfaction, and they're always bittersweet.

On my drive from the office to home at lunch, I looked over to see that Counting Crows' Recovering the Satellites had slipped out of my overlarge CD case and was sitting on the seat, so I popped it in. This album is like a direct conduit for my year in 7th grade, which now exists somewhere on the other side of a wormhole. Middle school was not particularly kind to me, in fact, I'm pretty sure it sucked, but for some reason I am strongly nostalgic for the early-to-mid '90s. As I listened to the lyrics of "Daylight Fading," I started to wonder how much of my perception of language is directly related to the associations I unconsciously made with the words in songs: singing "Goodbye to you/goodbye to all my friends/goodbye to everyone I know" in my seafoam-green bedroom after an alienating day at school.

I'm getting a little heady here, but it's a strange thing to be reminded of a fairly crappy time--whether by music, movies, art, photographs, your old diary, whatever--and have unfounded romantic associations with it. The way we reinterpret our experiences and "write" our memories is a process much more complicated than I'll ever understand, but I know I always manage to give my story a great soundtrack.

OK, I've got to go hit the bowl before it's time to go back to the office.  

So picture this: I walk into the convenience store wearing tights, a leotard and Heelys. To avoid attracting more attention (though I'm the only customer on the property, and I am wearing a leotard, so I don't know I could possibly claim MORE of the attendant's attention than I already am) I refrain from rolling to the back of the store and instead sort of tiptoe, because I'm not that used to my crazy shoes yet. I grab a gallon of milk and bring it to the counter, where Robert, as his vest tells me he's called, asks, "Aerobics or dance class?" "Dance class," I say, which is closer to what I've actually been doing (trapeze) and since I'm entirely uninterested in explaining what I've really been up to. We spend an awkward (at least to me) 30 seconds just staring at each other while Robert bobs his head to some instrumental metal and we wait for my debit card to be approved. I get in my car and drive the 100 yards home, where I immediately pour myself a glass of the milk I just bought. It tastes like shit! Like bleach! Or B.O., I'm not sure which. The suckiest part is that Conrad and I bought a gallon of milk at the store last night and I immediately poured it all down the drain. It tasted like fish. You know that scene in Napoleon Dynamite where he's tasting the milk at the FFA fair? Well that's me, in real life. I am a true connoisseur of milk; I drink about two gallons a week by myself. Milk is the ultimate refreshing beverage, great after a workout, with a pizza, hell, even with ice cream. I can't get enough of it. I can't even tell you how pissed I am to have bought two inferior jugs in a row.

Let's back up: Wednesday was my birthday; I turned 24 years old. Conrad, genius that he is, gave me a pair of Heelys, among other gifts (including a Nancy Drew computer game). I was totally shocked and psyched--this man is brilliant and definitely the Best Person Ever. Shoes with wheels=ultimate silliness and uber-rockness. Just since Wednesday, I've become a Heelys pro. I thought it would take longer, but it's pretty simple if you have good balance. As an added bonus, I was definitely the only adult rolling around the grocery store last night.

Other than my presents, my birthday was wonderfully awesome: I got lots of beautiful gifts, time to spend with people I love, a smorgasboard of tasties and lots of wishes from lots of people. But to tell the truth, I approached this birthday with a little ambivilance: after all, my Golden Year is over.

If you aren't aware of what your "Golden Birthday" is, let me tell you: your Golden Birthday is the year the date of your birthday and your age are the same number. So because my birthday is on May 23, my golden birthday was my 23rd birthday; naturally that makes my 23rd year my Golden Year. And it did not disappoint--in my 23rd year, I held a job I love, was asked to join the dance company I've wanted to be a part of for years, was in great shape and very healthy, was very happy and in love, got engaged, got married, went on an incredible honeymoon with my husband, and in general, spent what I consider to be the best year of my life (so far). That's awesome, yeah? Well, there's a superstitious part of me that worries that it's all going to be downhill from here. I know that's totally silly, but last year was just so wonderful I'm not sure anything could top it.

Another issue I've been struggling with is the old/young conflict that's been plaguing me. On the one hand, 24, in my mind, is in a different realm than 23. 23 is still youthful, could still be appropriate for college, is definitely "early 20s." 24, though, I mean, there's no question that 24 is an adult. To me, it sort of implies that there'll be no more excuses.  24 is time to get serious (but not so serious that Heelys are ruled out, I guess).

On the other hand, I've been very protective of my age at work. I don't like letting people know how old I am because I feel like my age will keep them from taking me seriously. For work, 24 is not very old at all, and I think a lot of people equate age with ability. The day after my birthday, the Big Boss was reminded that I'd had a birthday and she said, "Are you 20 yet?" I laughed it off, but she asked again, "How old are you?" so I told her. She said, "Oh, you're still a baby." That's insulting to me, especially in a work environment. I try very hard to do my job well and to be professional, and to me, how old someone is isn't important in an office. Part of me feels like she's a little bitter, because her son is my age, and he doesn't even have enough credits to get a two-year degree from college yet. Not that I'm passing any judgment on him; I really think it takes some people longer to figure out where they want to go than others, and that's OK, but I don't think I should be judged for my age, good or bad.

In truth, I do think I've achieved a lot for someone my age. I have a great job, a wonderful husband--I know what I want and I work hard to get it. I resolved the other night that I'm not going to keep my age a secret any more. I'm proud of myself and the life I've chosen and made and been blessed with, and I'm not afraid to claim it--my achievements or the time I've had to achieve them. I'm 24, and I can be whoever I want to be. You think that serious responsibility and youthful exuberance are mutually exclusive? Just watch.

I think I've found a formula. A great way to transform from Work-week April, the put-upon catchall employee of the magazine, to Weekend April, the creative, proactive, energetic ball of energy. I left work, which I must say was excruciatingly frustrating today, and performed the following actions:

1. Go to gym. Do 5:30 spinning class with Carolyn. Pump frustrations into bike.
   
2. Stop at ABC Package. Buy 6-pack of Red Stripe.
3. Drink Red Stripe while staring out the bedroom window at the trees and birds and that one chubby squirrell.
4. Take a shower and symbolically wash away negative energies.
5. Emerge as Weekend April.
   

One of the most exciting grassroots movements to end poverty in developing countries is the growing popularity of microloans. These small-scale, interest-free loans are a way a lot of people are connecting to the global community and making a difference in the economies of poor nations.

This is Asli Gasimova from Azerbaijan. She's requesting money to increase the diversity of inventory in her food market and make some repairs to her store. To donate to her campaign, click here.  

Kiva.org is one organization that is facilitating this process of helping entrepreneurs lift themselves out of poverty. Kiva identifies hardworking businesspeople from around the world who need some capital to start or grow their business. They post profiles of these folks and lenders can pick who and how much to lend. Just $50 can, for example, go a long way toward getting a seamstress in Sri Lanka the $500 she needs to open a storefront or buy a newer sewing machine and supplies.

Conrad and I are planning on lending half of our regular savings through Kiva. You're almost 99% guaranteed to get back all your money and in the meantime, you're making personal connections and seeing your money go straight to a person who can use it to make their lives better. What have you got to lose?

I've spent the past few days completely immersed in essays on hyperbolic space, fractals and computational origami and OHMYGOSH have I been loving it. I discovered the Institue for Figuring and feel like something completely incomprehensible has been revealed to me: math is beautiful. I am BLOWN AWAY. This is the kind of thing that makes me think Earth was written with some kind of incredible code that only God knows. Occasionally we can catch phrases here and there, but we'll never be able to decipher the whole language.

The Institute for Figuring is:

an organization dedicated to the poetic and aesthetic dimensions of science, mathematics and the technical arts.

The Institute’s interests are twofold: the manifestation of figures in the world around us and the figurative technologies that humans have developed through the ages. From the physics of snowflakes and the hyperbolic geometry of sea slugs, to the mathematics of paper folding, the tiling patterns of Islamic mosaics and graphical models of the human mind, the Institute takes as its purview a complex ecology of figuring.

Here are a few photos from the completely amazing Hyperbolic Coral Reef, which is, in my opinion, the most impressive interdisciplinary project I've ever seen. Is it scientific illustration? Is it art or craft? Is it mathematical exercise? Political commentary?

CHECK THIS OUT: All these creations were made through the needlecraft of crochet, which was discovered to be an especially condusive medium for explaining and visualizing hyperbolic space. As it turns out, lots of creatures in the natural world are physically structured according to hyperbolic algorithms, so this exhibit is anatomically quite accurate.

You're probably going, what? Because my explanation of this topic is muddled, at best, you just need to go to the online exhibitions at the Institute for Figuring and see for yourself. It's like listening to a group of people speaking a beautiful language you don't know and still being completely wrapped up in their conversation. For now, I leave you with this amazing origami, folded from single sheets of paper--no cuts.