But I like donuts and Sunday is donut day. I end my long Sunday morning runs at the donut shop around the corner from my apartment. There is an organic, vegan donut shop a mile down the road, but this one is closer so I shoulder the guilt and fiddle with my watch as I slip into the haven of fried dough and frosting.

The smell of fried dough clings to everything. Twenty years from now that smell will still be hovering over the walls and floors of this place. The woman behind the counter is standing over the trays of donuts with a pair of tongs in hand, waiting for me to make my selection.

I point to a chocolate donut with chocolate frosting and sprinkles. She grabs the one without sprinkles and I correct her. Then I indicate a regular donut with chocolate frosting and rainbow sprinkles. Again she goes for the one without sprinkles and again I correct her. After the third time, she looks at me curiously.

“They’re for the kids,” I blurt out. “They told me to get donuts with sprinkles.”

I don’t have kids.

I just really like sprinkles and I’m feeling guilty about getting donuts in the first place. One of the reasons I like having my long Sunday runs to myself is that I always end at the donut shop. If I ran with someone else they might suggest the local, healthy, totally sustainable café next door that serves steel cut oatmeal and toast with herbed butter. All of which is delicious, but it’s not donuts.

I tell myself that if I don’t workout then I don’t get donuts, and try to use it as a devilish sort of incentive, but I know it’s all a farce. I would eat donuts regardless and I run because I love to run. I love the time to myself. I love the wind swishing around me. I love the heat rising in curling tendrils from my body when I stop to stretch and look out over the Bay. Marin is in the distance, then the silhouette of the Golden Gate, and the San Francisco cityscape presiding over it all. I love the inspiration that rises to meet me when I take time to let it. I like feeling healthy. I like pushing myself, the slight burning of my lungs and muscles. But mostly I just love that something inexplicable about running. It’s the purest expression of that sudden, spontaneous joy that rushes through me at the oddest moments.

I don’t need the donuts as an incentive, but it’s taken me awhile to get to that point where I can admit to my donut obsession without needing to offer a justification. I’d like to be more responsible and healthy and eat carrots for breakfast because I prefer carrots, but I don’t. Not on Sunday.

When those voices rise up and tell me I should feel guilty for putting all of that useless sugar and fat into my body therein counteracting all the good I did for it by running, I simply shrug my shoulders and lick the frosting off my fingers. My mental well-being is important too, and my mental well-being delights in pink frosting and puffy, sugary fried dough with a slight crunch.

I’m glad that more and more people are aware of what they’re putting into their bodies and the terrifying amount of absolute sh*t that is labeled as food and put on shelves. But when I’m sitting with friends who are deliberating on whether or not they should order dessert, I want to scream at the top of my lungs, “Shut-up and order the damn chocolate cake!” And when the guilt creeps in as I’m examining the irony of a runner ending her long run at the crowded donut shop next door to an oatmeal and toast kind of place, I want to kick myself in the shins for being that girl.

I grab my white paper bag, grease leaking through, and sit on the curb. My feet, clad in battered running shoes, tap happily on the pavement as I bite into the dough. Rainbow sprinkles fall to the ground and I take a sip from my milk carton, school cafeteria memories surfacing rapidly. I’m a runner. I love donuts. Judge me. Your oatmeal looks boring and my sugar-induced delirium doesn’t care that it’s healthier. This donut is fricking delicious.

I like the last one. It basically sums up a) why I started running and b) why I avoid the hurdles. While I find Prefontaine especially inspiring, the real reason I started running has a lot more to do with my ineptitude at other sports than any real running talent. Let me explain.

Sitting on a rooftop in Bethlehem one night, looking out over Jerusalem in the distance and enjoying a bottle of the worst wine known to mankind, my friend lights a cigarette and asks why I run.

Given that I had taken to hitting the road at 5:00 a.m. in order to get a run in before the desert heat made even breathing uncomfortable, her query appears far more rational than my running habit.

Taking a sip out of a chipped plastic cup, I consider my answer.

When the call to prayer ricochets off of the hills and reverberates through my apartment at dawn, why don’t I just pull the cover over my head like everyone else? What possesses me to lace up my running shoes and join the ranks of the devout, albeit for a completely different kind of prayer?

I try to explain that I love the quiet that hovers over the hills in the early morning stillness. I love the sound of my running shoes slapping down on the pavement and I love greeting the day at the top of a hill, my heart racing, and sweat beading on my skin. When these words tumble out of my mouth, none of it makes any sense. Running has become so habitual that I realize it’s easier to answer why I started rather than why I can’t stop.

It was in junior high. Despite my general athletic prowess, I’m not good at sports involving extraneous objects. I have this annoying habit of ducking whenever anyone throws or kicks anything at me, and while this is a completely rational response, it discourages  participation in most sports available to junior high girls. After I had exhausted volleyball, basketball, softball, and soccer, my Dad suggested that I try track and field, stressing the “track” component of that phrase. I think he was concerned I would attempt the javelin.

I considered it carefully. “So, all I have to do is run in a circle?”

“Yep. That’s it.”

“And nobody throws anything at me?”

“Nope.”

And that was that. I signed up for track the next day and for over 15 years, I’ve run with a religious fervor matching that of the devoted Christians, Muslims, and Jews populating Jerusalem’s surrounding hills.

I’ve traveled all over the world, lived in five countries, and everywhere I go, my running shoes go with me. Turkey, Morocco, Egypt, Israel, France, Switzerland, and Germany my running shoes have seen the streets of them all and then some. So when I found myself in the West Bank, I didn’t question whether or not I would run. It was just a question of how and where. And this is what I told my friend that night. “It’s a habit, an addiction. Just like your damn cigarette, I can’t give it up, even if I wanted to.”

She tilts her head and laughs. “Just like my damn cigarette?”

“But healthier.”

Looking at me out of the corner of her eye, she says “I don’t know. It makes your thighs too big.”

I consider this. She twirls an unlit cigarette in her fingers. “So you started running because you weren’t good at anything else?’

“Basically.”

We sit in silence for a few more minutes. I stare down at my legs.

“Really, it makes my thighs too big?”

She pours me another glass of wine and shrugs. “Don’t worry, habibti. Some men like that.”

2. When crowding into a shared taxi to catch a ride to a nearby town over miles of uneven dirt road, try not to sit next to the lady with the three chickens in her lap.

3. Ugandans are universally friendly. Everyone went out of their way to answer our questions, help us figure things out, and just generally make sure we were enjoying ourselves.

4. Winning a barefoot race in a small village with everyone shouting “Go, mizungu, go” makes all of those early morning workouts seem more worthwhile. Forty years from now when my grandchildren ask me for my best story, that will probably be it.

5. Riding on the back of a motorbike with all of your luggage through rush hour traffic in Kampala is not a good idea. It doesn’t even sound like a good idea.

6. If you cry at Disney movies, sappy love scenes, and/or inspirational speeches, be sure to wear dark glasses when listening to WMI borrowers tell their stories about how a loan has helped them turn their lives around. Frankly, my inability to turn off the waterworks is getting embarrassing.

7. The Lonely Planet East Africa guide’s top picks for hotels in Kampala leaves a little bit to be desired. I’ve slept comfortably in some pretty shady hotels, but that one was pretty bad. Some hotels seem to be under the impression that if they put a tv in the room, travelers will happily overlook other deficiencies. Trust us, we’ll take clean sheets over a semi-functioning tv any day of the week.

8. Ants in Uganda bite really, really hard. I’m not even kidding, you guys. They draw blood. I still have a bite mark. Apparently these ants can devour entire chickens and goats. I didn’t believe it until one bit me. Now I believe it.

9. Chickens here run wherever they want, however they want, whenever they want. Well, at least until it’s time for dinner. It’s not uncommon to see a chicken happily perched in a classroom or a cow wandering nonchalantly across the soccer field in the middle of a game.

10. Cancelled flights are not fun, but free upgrades to business class are. Another glass of champagne? Why, thank you, don’t mind if I do.

Both good questions.

The deal behind microfinance if you’re not already familiar with it (or even if you are) is that it provides micro loans to those individuals who otherwise wouldn’t be eligible for credit. When you think about the times in your life that you’ve had to rely on credit (whether it’s through a family member, friend, or professional banking institution), it becomes pretty obvious that most of us need some assistance from time to time. Essentially proving the old adage true that it takes money to make money.

I for one would not have been able to get where I am without the assistance of loans and the fact that I am eligible for a loan already puts me ahead of millions of poverty-stricken people around the world.

I don’t like describing anyone as poor. That’s not an adjective that should define anyone. Poverty is a circumstance, not an identity. It can happen to anyone, anywhere, at any time. The cycle of poverty is cancerous in nature, spreading quickly and becoming more and more difficult to tackle the longer it’s left untreated. Tackling poverty requires a various set of tools, some more effective than others. Microfinance is one such tool that, when done correctly, we believe to be exceptionally effective at curbing the cyclical nature of poverty by giving people practical tools and training they can utilize to create sustainable businesses.

It’s not that we don’t believe in charity or in giving to those in need. It’s just that we don’t see it as an effective tool to ending global poverty, and ultimately that’s our goal. It’s also the goal of the Women’s Microfinance Initiative, a DC-based organization that works primarily with women in Uganda and Kenya. There are numerous microfinance organizations out there and a lot of good ones doing some amazing work. So, why did we decide to partner with WMI?

Good question.

Here’s why.

WMI targets women in rural areas who struggle with barriers to credit that those living in more urban areas don’t always face. Individuals who have a difficult time getting to urban areas to access financial services are more likely to succumb to credit abuse. We also like that they target women, who have been shown to take loans more responsibly than their male counterparts and who are more likely to use the money they make to support their families and their communities, creating jobs and sending their children to school. WMI provides the training necessary to help women manage their businesses and to ensure that those women successfully pay back their loans. They have 100% payback rate and women who graduate from WMI’s loan program are able to then move toward independent banking.

We tackled the apparel industry because we believe that we can do it better. We believe that you shouldn’t have to decide between good athletic apparel and supporting a company that offers something good from start to finish. We believe in more than just the end result and we feel strongly that WMI has a similar philosophy. They’re concerned about more than just the end result of whether or not someone pays back their loan. They invest in the training and support of women who have all of the talent, ingenuity, and drive to make their ideas work, but need a little access to capital and a little bit of training.

That’s something that we feel is sustainable, practical, and addresses the long-term needs of these communities. We’re incredibly excited about teaming up with WMI and Perry and I are beside ourselves at the opportunity to head to Uganda in order to get to know these women better and celebrate their incredible accomplishments! We leave Sunday and we’ll be blogging about it while there so definitely stay tuned for more.

Uganda. I keep rolling it around on my tongue, trying to imagine what it will feel like to be there.

I’ve read so much about it that I can close my eyes and feel the colors of it. The red Earth, the fluorescent green, the heat hovering gently over the treetops, the deep blue of the sky, the rising mountains. It’s all just a picture painted in my head spun from the words of too many books. When I was younger, I’d perch myself on a rooftop, a fence, or a tree branch. With a book in hand and anything I could scavenge from the kitchen, I’d read so much that I’d convince myself I’d been to thousands of places around the world throughout varying points in human history. That’s how I feel about Uganda. I’m craving to know the country beyond the superficial painting I’ve created in my head.

I’m eager for the noise and smell of the country and the palpable manifestation of its soul hitting you from every angle as you sit, sticky and sweaty, crammed in the back of a bus while the country rushes in at an overwhelming pace. It’s a sensory overload that leaves you reeling before you clamber out of the vehicle and into a small village where the reeling stops and the country settles into you. You grasp the hands of those around you as introductions are made. Palm against palm is a far more intimate gesture than we give it credit for. Eyes are laughing, gazes dancing back and forth, and your soul will rush forward in a moment of pure joy. It’s good to be alive. It’s good to be in this place, with these people. It’s good to hear their stories, to collect them, and secret them away for another time.

A collector of stories. That is essentially what I am. I carry the gazes of people within my heart and when it becomes too much, they spill from me and onto paper. I tell their stories. I close my eyes and nestle myself within the sound of their voice, the lilt of their accent, the low of their sorrows, and the high of their joys. I read them from cover to cover and then I translate it.

Uganda. I am aching to have its stories poured into me. I am excited to go somewhere new, to travel, to explore the meandering roads cut through a nature so wild, it roars forward and will not be subdued. But mostly I am excited to meet people. To sit, rocking back on my heels, my mouth half open in a moment of self-forgetfulness, listening to the tangle of life experiences pour from the mouths of those around me.

And Perry? Well, in the unlikely event that I am able to peel his camera out of his hand for two seconds, he just wants to tumble over the treetops of the Impenetrable Forest in a bush plane manned by a ruffian pilot with a heavy Russian accent, a penchant for Vodka, and a disdain for safety. I used to think that it was me who instigates these ridiculous situations while traveling. Now I realize that it’s not me. It’s these lunatics I keep traveling with and my inability to say “You know, actually, that doesn’t sound like a good idea.” So if anything insane happens on this trip, blame Perry. I just wanted to sit and talk to people.

Aside from constantly sending Perry texts complaining about how I’m never letting him talk me into anything again, I’m doing okay. Today I had to get my yellow fever shot for our upcoming trip to Uganda and I’m seriously regretting the fact that I can’t pacify my drugged and semi-delirious self with a cookie. Other than that, can’t complain, but there are definitely a few things I miss on a daily basis.

Coffee in my sugar
Um, obviously I meant the other way around. Or did I? My subconscious is clearly at work here and that mistype is too good to correct.

Jam
I don’t even eat jam on a daily basis, but the other day I had some bread (I like to randomly buy loafs of bread and carry them around) and my coworker had jam in the fridge (as one does) and I really wanted some, but I couldn’t have it. It was organic raspberry jam. It looked delicious. I’ll never know.

Juice
This is something I drink on a daily basis. I don’t drink soda, but I still like to mix up my boring water routine. In lieu of busting out the vodka at 8 a.m (I do have some standards, you know. They’re low, but I have them), I usually have watered down cranberry juice. I miss it.

Not Having  to Pay Attention to Every Damn Thing I Ingest
I have suddenly become that person who meticulously scans the ingredients of every item to see if I can eat it or not. The other day I had to Google whether the beer I wanted to order had sugar in it. It did. I was saddened and had water instead. In retrospect it was probably for the best. I had just come from yoga and I’m pretty sure true yogis frown upon post-meditation beer consumption. Whatevs. It’s good for your aura.

Baking
I love to bake. It calms me. I’m not saying you can’t bake without sugar, but all of my go-to comfort recipes are a no-go. Chocolate chip cookies, banana bread, coffee cake, cheesecake. Sob. That was “sob” as in the sound one makes while crying and not an abbreviated version of “son of a bitch,” though that sentiment also sums up my frustration.

Overall I feel fine. I was half-hoping that it would be some sort of miracle step and I would feel better, happier, greater or at the very least I would have some crazy side effects and withdrawal symptoms that would turn me into a Mr.Hyde sort of creature…because that’s always fun. On the other hand, as much as I love donuts, I’ll let you in on a little secret.

I’m all talk.

Are you shocked? Ok, fine, at least pretend to be!

I do love donuts and cookies and ice cream, but I don’t eat them on a daily basis nor do I consume them in copious quantities. I was raised in a pretty strict household. With a background in fitness and nutrition, my stepmom was looking out for trans fats and high fructose corn syrup long before looking out for them had become somewhat mainstream. She’s kind of a hipster like that.

Oreos and soda were quickly banned and even though I grumbled about it on a daily (hourly?) basis, it made me a lot more aware of what I eat. I don’t drink soda, I don’t eat candy, and I stay the hell away from high fructose corn syrup. That stuff scares me, you guys. So when I sat down and looked at cutting sugar out of my diet, I was surprised and pleased to note that I actually don’t consume that much of it. Not enough to be considered a real live sugar addict anyway.

Nonetheless, this little experiment is good for two reasons. First and foremost, once my week is up I’ll be able to give Perry smug looks when I eat my cheesecake and say “I’m not addicted! I proved it!” Secondly, it made me more aware of the sugar I do consume and how prevalent it is in most processed foods. Check it out sometime in the grocery store. Just casually pick up items and look at the ingredients. You’ll be surprised. My grocery shopping takes three times longer than normal now because I have to read every ingredient. It’s annoying, but it’s also pretty enlightening (in a terrifying sort of way).

After reading all of the sugar withdrawal symptoms, I’m curious. Has anyone else tried this for short periods of time or has anyone entirely cut sugar out of their diet? I want to hear some stories, people! E-mail me: nikki@greenlightapparel.com I promise I won’t post them. Unless, of course, you want me to.

There is a sentence. A short, insignificant sentence about adding sugar to tea. I see Perry furrow his brow in displeasure and I know what’s coming. A lecture about sugar. Only it’s not a lecture exactly, more like a terrifying litany of the destructive properties of sugar in all of its varying forms. We talk about addiction. I wave it off saying I enjoy coffee and alcohol, but I give them up periodically for months at a time just to reassure myself that addiction hasn’t clamped itself around my neck too tightly, but sugar? I don’t know. I eat it in moderation and I don’t see the point of giving it up. I like my weekly donut or my evening chocolate chip cookie.

“I challenge you to give up sugar,” Perry says with a bemused smile. “For two weeks.”

“Okay…” I trail off. I know I’m trapped. I was that kid who never backed down from a triple dog dare. I’m too stubborn and proud. The best way to get me to do something is to tell me I can’t do it. I think Perry knows this. I think he might be the same.

“What about homemade cookies?” I’m grasping at straws. “They’re not processed. It shouldn’t count.”

In a show of benevolence, Perry shortens my sentence to one week. “One week without sugar. Starting now.”

“I can eat fruit?”

“Yes.”

“Ok. Deal.” I make a mental note to stockpile mangoes.

The waiter comes to clear the dishes. My half-eaten cheesecake sits next to an empty espresso cup. “Are you still working on this cheesecake?” he asks.

“Yes,” I respond quickly before flashing a guilty look. “I can’t let it go to waste.”

Perry laughs. I finish my cheesecake, we close the tab, and call it a day. Standing in the kitchen, I rifle through my cupboards and stand in front of the fridge to make a mental checklist of things that I can’t eat this week. Chocolate chips, coffee cake, and cranberry juice. That sounds easy enough, but like a moth to the flame, I’m now fixated on these items.

I sit down at my computer with a glass of water and a steely resolve, but all I can think about is how good a handful of chocolate chips would be with a glass of cranberry juice. I send Perry a text.

“Damn you.”

It’s going to be a long week.

So this year, I’m not going to start anything new. I’m not going to promise myself that this is the year I’m going to win a Nobel Peace Prize or that I’m finally going to get the lead role of Annie on Broadway. I’m going to just keep doing stuff I already do, but I’m going to do it better.

Drink Good Wine
Done. That was easy. We’re off to a good start already.

Don’t Smoke
I’ve never smoked so doing good on this one too. Keep up the good work!

Pin at least 50 things a Day on Pinterest
I’m definitely going to exceed this one. (This list is going great. I’m already feeling like an overachiever.)

Get Lost More
Right now, I get hopelessly lost almost every time I leave my house. Guess I’ll need to amp things up a bit.

Drop iPhone at Least Once a Day
Yesterday, it flew out of my pocket while I was playing on the swings in a nearby playground. It’s going to be difficult to top that one this year, but I’ll try.

Run Fewer Marathons
I didn’t run any this year.

Eat More Donuts
The only donuts I regret are the ones I don’t eat.

Be More of a Spectacle
Considering that just yesterday I carried a desk a mile through Berkeley because it wouldn’t fit in the car, this year is going to be hard to top.

Perfect the “I Just Rolled Out of Bed” Look
I’m so close on this one. The only thing that could get me closer is wearing my pajamas to work.

Watch More Funny Animal Videos
Have you seen this one? BBC Walk on the Wild Side

Travel to New Countries
Check. Perry and I are going to Uganda for the Women’s Microfinance Initiative graduation ceremony in January. Perry has no idea what he’s gotten himself into. Brave soul agreeing to travel with me. I’ll probably accidentally get us signed up for a marathon up the highest peak in Uganda.

Be Less Adventurous
I know you’re thinking you read that wrong, but since being adventurous has gotten me spontaneously signed up for a marathon in Morocco, seen me hitchhiking through the Sinai, inspired an overnight stay on a roundabout in Haifa, and gotten me roped into a cycling trip with a bunch of sports-mad French triathletes, I’m thinking maybe I need to tone it down a little.

Maybe.

On the other hand…there is that ultra race in Kenya that I’d like to do…

After helping Perry out with a photo shoot in the Berkeley hills on Friday (It was beautiful and I learned how to use a reflector to bounce the sunlight. Actually, it was mostly me holding it at random angles and Perry having to come over every five minutes to adjust it. Also, I almost fell off a hillside. So all-in-all, a pretty typical morning for us). Anyway, after “helping” out, I hopped onto BART (yay public transportation) and headed to the Costco in San Francisco to keep tabs on everything and make sure the display stayed pretty.

Stepping into the Costco it was so amazing to see the Greenlight logo from afar as I caught my first glimpse of the signage hanging above our display racks. Two snazzy looking mannequins were placed in front of the racks with crisp, clear photos hanging above rows of zip t’s, jackets, and–my favorite–the Momentum long-sleeved shirts. I’m trying to be humble here, but it looked so awesome. Good job, team.

With the flurry of Costco shoppers, the set-up definitely needed some periodic love so I spent the day rearranging hangers, sorting sizes, and just talking to people. I like to talk so I was happy as a clam (weirdest. expression. ever.)  answering people’s questions and taking the opportunity to tell everyone about Greenlight Apparel. I got a lot of satisfaction out of telling people the item of clothing they were holding was made from recycled plastic bottles, but not as much satisfaction as telling them that 25% of our profits go to education and microfinance programs.

I was wearing the Greenlight Momentum shirt (think Snuggie comfort level meets hipster yoga look) and everyone kept complimenting me on the shirt. It went to my head and I haven’t taken it off since. I’m wearing it right now. I wore it yesterday and the day before and if I didn’t need to wash it, I’d wear it again tomorrow. We’ve had people tell us they would like a shirt in every color and I’m right there with them. In fact, we probably need to get on that soon or everyone is going to start thinking I only own one shirt (Not true. I own at least three).

When I got tired of trying to see how many ways I could creatively display the tank top and t-shirt boxes (pyramid displays are so hot right now), I wandered around Costco trying free samples and intermittently texting everyone I know. Unfortunately for all of my friends and family, I have unlimited texting and can barrage everyone incessantly with illuminating questions and commentary like…

“On a scale of 1-10, how badly do you think we need a $350 blender? It’s on sale at Costco.”(Response: It better make the best smoothie of my life)

“Just undressed the female mannequin. Lot of snickering going on.” (Response: Wait. Where are you?)

“Guy just walked past me with nothing but chocolate and alcohol in his cart.” (Response: Marry him)

“I just tripped over the mannequin while trying to help a cute guy. I fail at life.” (Response: Did he at least help you up?)

While staying on your feet all day in Costco isn’t an experience I’d want to live every day, I really enjoyed getting to meet with people and hearing their feedback on our apparel, our set-up, and our company philosophy. Don’t roll your eyes, but I actually had a lot of fun helping people pick out styles and sizes and it was incredibly encouraging to see how excited people got when I told them about our work with the Women’s Microfinance Initiative or the One World Children’s Fund. So many of you had your own stories and ideas on how to give back and I was really touched and inspired to hear all of your thoughts!

So, for those of you who were able to come see us in Costco, thank you for your continued support. You rock! For those of you who we met for the first time, it was great to meet you and thanks for taking the time to learn a little more about us! And for those of you scattered across the globe, we’ll have our online store up and–wait for it, wait for it–running soon (Get it?).