I’m an over-optimizer, constantly putting together spreadsheets and reevaluating my habits. I like to think I have these fragile structures on the go, and if I can build on them, even half-assedly, every day, I’m doing something. And for some reason 20 is the number that keeps coming up.
I don’t always manage it, but I aim to read 20 pages a day, especially if it’s a long book. It seems to be my limit when working full-time. Andy Miller shoots for 50 in The Year of Reading Dangerously, and I love him but that’s ridiculous. 20 pages a day gets you through a 600-page honker in a month. Fine. Frankly I’d hate to read a 600-page honker in less — you’re meant to live alongside them. Like The Sea, the Sea, the Booker-Prize-winning honker I’m reading now that already feels like a neighbour.
I’ve been learning Japanese for three and a half years, and I’ve kept a habit of 20 kanji reviews a night on Wanikani. Usually while fighting off sleep. It’s not enough to move forward on their learning plan but it’s enough to keep from forgetting. (And have dreams with kanji in them.) The actual progress happens on long weekends or vacation.
20 kilometres is about as far as I walk every weekend, although it’s only in retrospect that I count them. The shin splints hit around 15 km and that’s my early warning sign to sit the heck down. Most of my walking is functional, or pretends to be functional. I tell myself I’m saving money on the metro.
I even squirrel away $20 a month for my next tattoo. That’s low, and sets a slow pace, but I’m saving my skin.