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We finally got our Puerto Morelos apartment ready to airbnb. It has been a rather large undertaking to say the least, but it’s over now. Done and done and I do think it looks rather nice, but you can judge that for yourself. But now we need a property manager. Someone that can rent it out for us, managing the cleaning and turnover, making sure that everything is running how it should, etc. etc. (You think that living by the beach is so lovely until you realize how much the salt can eat away at those necessary things like small valves attached to your clothing machine, air condition, shower head.) There was one lady that came highly recommended to us. She manages about 100 properties in Puerto Morelos and has lived in the community full time since 2019. We arrived at her house which was only about 15 minutes from the beach. She lives in a gated community filled with medium to large homes, a community pool, and some condominiums. When we walked into her house I was struck by the very tall ceilings and a window that revealed a courtyard (small pool with waterfall included) that the house encircled. I immediately veered to the right. “You who, over hear,” I heard a loud voice command and of course it was coming from the opposite direction. A woman was sitting on the couch. She was very blonde and very white. Not really what I was expecting. She told us she was originally from Idaho, another surprise. Her and her husband fell in love with Puerto Morelos and wanted to retire here. They built this house, she said as she waved a flappy arm around her lush surroundings. Her voice was loud in decimal and her confidence was even louder. “After a month on the beach,” she bellowed, “I grew bored. You can only relax and veg out for so long.” That’s funny was my first thought. I have been here for two months and doing exactly that and never once got bored. I quite enjoy all of that vegging and relaxing actually. And then my second thought quickly caught up to the first. Why was that? Why can I go on long walks, take myself to coffee shops, stare out onto the ocean for two months and crave a third, a fourth, and perhaps a lifetime of only doing that. She continued to explain that she employs about 15 Mexican citizens, most of which are bilingeral. “Thank goodness for that,” she chuckled, but my attention had moved on because I was still pondering my own unboredness. And the conclusion that I came up with was that I’m a reader, a writer. I can stare into the abyss and imagine worlds far beyond my own reality. I can sit and read and be swept into one life after another until what is real slowly begins to fade into something that is altogether imaginative. I ask you, can a reader every really get bored? I suddenly felt a soft nudging on my leg. I looked down a bit startled. A tuxedo cat was nudging my fingertips with his pink little noise, begging for a pet or two. A cat person, my heart proclaimed. She had to be a good person. “You have a cat,” I said, not realizing that the conversation had moved along. She was telling us what needed to be done before our apartment could be rented. All information that I should be paying attention to. “She loves cats,” my husband quickly added. “I’ve rescued four actually, this one is just the friendliest,” she said without missing a beat or seeming to notice how out of context my outburst was. And then of course I had to launch into my own story of how I rescued a tuxedo cat from a Mexican beach a few years ago and how she is the friendliest too and I named her Fridacatlo. “I love that you're a cat person,” she said through a smile and then my part of the conversation was over and the business part began again and I was left to escape again. She's a busy type of person, I thought as I watched her explain to us her renting process. I so envy those busy people. The ones who can’t stay still, the hustlers in the world; always working on a project, always looking at what they can accomplish next. I sometimes watch them over my book and feel like a slow moving sloth in comparison or maybe their life is sped too far up and I’m the one living in the real world. One in which is more slow moving, more paced, more able to be allowed enjoyment. Will my slow moving life feel longer than there’s, I sometimes wonder. Will my slow moving life be more fulfilling than there’s? Or will I regret all the times I escaped into the confines of my own mind? I probably will never know. But what I do know is that I will never regret reading, will never regret escaping into one adventure after another, will never regret getting lost in all of those verbs, nouns, prepositions that somehow form sentences that are beautiful and stay with me even after the last page is turned. Readers will never become bored with their life because they can lead so many others, I will tell you this much, however. If you ever need to find me, you will find that my head is in a book at the beach, or on the couch, or in bed, or even at work (shhh, don't tell anyone), but don't try to talk to me until the last page is turned because I'm living somewhere else for a little while and that is perfectly fine with me.

There’s something to be said about sleepy towns. Those out of the way places that steal your heart with their familarity. Knowing the barista down the road, the bartender around the corner, the bookstore clerk across the street does something to a person, especially when you’re an introvert by nature. It eases something inside of you. Calms the overthinking mind, the anxious heart. But the town in question doesn’t just have those small town vibes, it has the ocean, the beach, and the waves that somehow regulate my central nervous system. We bought an apartment in Puerto Morelos. A small Mexican fishing village that has a population of about 19,205 residents in their town proper according to the 2020 INEGI census. But tourist young and old from all over the world flock to this small town because they really have preserved some of Mexico’s old school charm. Puerto Morelos is what Tulum wishes it had become before social media influencers got involved and people started to see dollar signs instead of what is the heart of a place. And can you really blame them? Our world is run by the cans and the can nots and a money grab is perhaps a can that refuses to be ignored. I saw a financial opportunity of my own, so, who am I to really judge. But I digress…. We bought a apartment to Airbnb and it has been quite the undertaking. I am beyond thankful for my husband who has done most of the taking while I have done most of the undering. And by that I mean walking the four small streets. Staring out at the fishing boats. Counting the waves and lounging by the pool with a book in one hand, a cold beverage in the other. I have found that life moves slower when you are so close to the ocean. My feet begin to shuffle and my breath begins to come out in slow patterns of swirls. There are two churches, three coffee shops, a plethora of pharmacies, one book store, one grocery store, and several really good restaurants, one with a Michelin Guide mention. But I don’t even think all of that is necessarily needed to make my heart forever happy with such a place. It is the out of the way streets that are empty, the other airbnbs or boutique hotels that bode unique architectural patterns, and the friendliness of the shop owners and restaurant managers. When the life that I live in the confines of my anxious mind become too difficult for me to process going to such a place straightens the often rumpled effects of the self doubt, the negative talk that so often darkens and at times overtakes the entirety of my thinking. But here, with the sea breeze lightly brushing my hair it smudges the darkness away and I am finally free of the shadows that sometimes become monsters. I have included several pictures of the town so you can see what I mean. If you are ever in this part of the world I highly recommend forgoing that over priced all inclusive resort to stay at a place that gives you a snap shot of a simpler life, where kids play soccer in the streets, not a cell phone in sight. Laughter replaces likes in their mind and hearts are held to a different level of what used to be considered happy.

You may think I am just a glutton for punishment at this point and maybe I do like experiencing a certain level of pain or maybe it’s because once you fix something about your own physicality other things seem so much easier to change. I have always been insecure about my teeth. My front row dominantly shouts to be heard whenever I smile, but unfortunately when I obtained these overbearing front teeth of mine I was running a high fever at the time and this caused some permanent discoloration. Fast forward to my adult self, where going to the dentist has become something born into my nightmares. Besides the natural discoloration, where more than one dental hygienist has taken it upon herself/himself to try to physically remove the yellow through a lot of scraping and and side eyed judgemental looks, and the fact that I love red wine, coffee, tea and all the other staining pieces of earthly heavens, my teeth have turned even more yellow. (Fun fact: I did have a nurse tell me once that the reason I always have extra plaque buildup is because my spit is sweeter than others. I didn’t really know that was a thing; I just figured it was my lack of brushing, my failed attempts at flossing, but I did like her analysis better than my own laziness). I tell you all of this to say that I decided to get a laser whitening treatment while I’m in Mexico. When I was in college I whitened my teeth, which felt more like bleaching, under a dentist’s care of course and it was excruciatingly painfully. So why, you may ask, would I want to do such a thing again. In my mind I thought that surely technology would have come up with something easier, less painful by now. I’ve seen celebrities and reality stars talk and post pictures of themselves sitting in a chair, a laser mouth guard in their mouth, sunglasses like goggles expertly placed over their eyes. Makeup flawlessly brushed, hair flawlessly blown out. Not a line of grimace seen on their faces. That is what I was envisioning and that is not at all what I go, minus the sunglassed goggles of course. I arrived for my appointment nervous, but was immediately whisked away to a room with a nurse and who I assumed was my doctor. I don’t understand why more people aren’t afraid of going to the dentist. Look at the torture devices just casually laying by my chair. The doctor spent the first 45 minutes cleaning my teeth and then the brightening treatment began. I have to say I was sweating, or at least my legs were. I’m sure my eyes expressed a level of panic, the lines in my face held in a permanent grimace. My idea of resembling the celebrities I saw was most definitely not coming to fruition. It was like I was on the verge of thinking that I would experience pain at any moment so the anticipation was making me sweat, but only on my nether regions. Why? You tell me. I had to wear a huge mouth guard, which became very uncomfortable as it dug into my gums. You can see here how attractive I really looked. I soon learned this was the least of my soon to be problems. The whole procedure would take about an hour. They placed a white strip on my upper and lower teeth and then applied this white goopy material. Once that was done I had to wait 15 minutes, where they then removed the whitening goop before replacing it with more goop. This whole process would occur four times. I only made it to the third round, with my bottom teeth radiating shoots of pain during the second one. The doctor looked at me quite sadly when he took the mouth guard and brightening grill out of my mouth, telling me that such a procedure will probably not be for any future versions of myself. I was nodding along as more of that shooting pain played a song of some sorts as it radiated from one tooth and then to the other. I would have to abide by an all white diet, he said next for at least 48 to 72 hours. White rice, white yogurt, white pasta, white vinegar, bananas were all on the list. (If you were wondering I immediately made a stop at Walmart to pick up some tequila blanco.) The rest of the day I was in pain, like feeling sorry for myself, screaming tears of anger at how stupid I could be, what if this never stops, and the worst part was that I had done it all to myself. You can be fine one moment and then a sharp pain in one tooth strikes and it seems to go straight to the root. It sent me into one howling fit after another. Through all of this I was impressed with the dental care I received and would recommend going to a dentist in Mexico, however, you may want to make sure your teeth aren’t too sensitive if you want to ever do a laser brightening treatment. A regular cleaning runs around 80 USD and this procedure plus the cleaning was 173 USD, but my husband did some negotiating on his own. The website quoted me at 250 USD. I am better today. Honestly the pain lasted less than 12 hours, with a dull ache following, which is now almost completely gone. This trip to Mexico has been an experience I have to say. It has felt like I have been around more doctors in these two months than I have in the United States over the last six. But all of this tells me that when we do eventually live in Mexico full time health care is top notch and quite affordable. Throughout all of my squealing, crying and complaining my teeth are brighter than they have ever been and this one insecurity can be held at bay for at least the time being.

We left Mexico to hop onto another adventure. How incredibly cool my inner child couldn’t help but to think What a well traveled bitch my middle child confirmed And I was they all were until we were speeding through the Cancun airport, I was confident wearing a very boho, flowy, off white shirt. My necklaces hung down my neck in a haphazard way that was very much more on the planned side. ”Girl, I love your style,” I suddenly heard. I stopped my fast paced steps. Turned around. My eyes flashed to the right and then to the left until they landed upon a blonde haired girl. Her accent was faint. She continued to compliment my shirt, my necklaces, my whole outfit and then the actual con began. Or maybe it already had, but my diluted brain was so blown away by the compliment that I refused to accept what the reality actually was. ”Try this sample,” she said as she pushed a free product package into my hands. “Do you care about fine lines or dark spots?” She said next. Her words ran together without a breath in between. Um, I thought as I glanced around to where my husband should be, but was not. He had escaped. Smart man. ”Fine lines, I guess.” I said next. Still a bit confused as to what was happening. She then shooed me to a chair. A dark haired man, single scarf thrown over one shoulder, began to touch my face with one product after another. “You have such nice skin,” he said. And I blushed. My esteem growing in leagues. I felt a tightening under the eye that he was working on. He then pushed a mirror in front of my face. ”Can’t you tell a difference,” he asked, although it wasn’t really a question. And I could actually, but when he showed me the price it was quite steep. Like 200 dollars for a small tube of what looked to be white paste and what promised to be a very temporary fix to a wrinkled face. I panicked, I will admit to that. ”I’m coming back in a few days,” I rushed to say. “I will catch you then.” ”We are a pop up shop,” he replied with a look that reeked of dismay. “We will be gone when you get back.” Although I never told him when that would be. ”I’ll check out the website.” My voice raised a few octaves. ”It’s twice as much,” he chimed, twisting his neck to one side. I finally had to shake my head no. He gave me a look that resounded in you’re dead to me and then left me alone after putting a fluttered hand into the air. I was still sitting, one under eye completely clear of wrinkles while the other one was lined and puffy. I finally made my way out of the self proclaimed pop up salon, head down, shoulders slumped. My ego diminished to ant sized. What did all that say about me, I wondered. The fact that one compliment can spiral me into such a situation. The blonde sales woman didn’t think my style was particularly unique. That was a web that she was good at spinning and I, like a bug drawn to a bright light, fell into it all. I don’t like being played. I don’t like inauthentic people. But are my feelings so low about myself that I will fall for such things, especially when I should know better. I’ve been visiting this part of the world for close to seven years. I should know when a sales person is wanting to get a person’s attention at this point. But I obviously did not. As I continued to walk through the airport I could feel my mood dip lower and then lower still as I realized a few things about myself. Why can’t I appreciate the person I am? The way I look? and dress? The way my belly lays my butt sways I don’t really know the answer and at 45 if I haven’t figured it out by now what does that make me? A loss cause? Surely not hopefully not There is still time, I think, to grow accustomed to and accept my own physicality and I hope that time comes sooner rather than later because I’m very tired of the overthinking the over doubting the over talking (that is always negative in nature) I want a moment of peace a quiet for my brain to accept to enjoy and to finally finally love the person I am

I was supposed to be born in July, perhaps even July 4th, although I would have to ask my parents for the exact date. I believe it to be July 4 and once believed these days reality is only a hop skip and a jump away. I turned 45 this year and America turns 250 (well will have already turned when you will be reading this). With the years ticking along like a clock that is midway through its battery life, I began to wonder what America and I have learned through our combined experiences. I have become more emotionally intelligent, that much I do know to be a fact. I can read the room if you will. I can tell when people are interested, or uninterested, in what I have to say. This particular skill I learned from one of my college professors. She was in her 70s when I had her in class and now has since passed, but she still lives on in my memories and the lessons that she inadvertently taught me. I remember one particular day. I was having lunch in the small bistro my university placed in the front of the school. It screamed we are so hip, so cool, although the food was just recycled from the cafeteria, but did make you feel a bit better receiving your meal on a checkered papered basket. I entered the small cafe and immediately saw her. It was awkward to say the least. I was perhaps a sophomore at the time so had already spent a great deal of time with her. Me being in several stage plays and her being head of the theatre department. ”You want to have lunch?” She asked me, much to my surprise. I have to admit I was a bit flattered. She could be intimidating, never took bull shit from anyone. I had watched her cut someone deep and then chuckle to herself, her blue eyes twinkling in delight, while the student frowned and grunted what a bitch she was. But I found myself nodding that yes, I would indeed like to have lunch with her. I don’t really remember much of the conversation although I highly doubt it was too enthralling for her. I’m sure I stuttered, put one foot or two in my mouth (hopefully not at the same time) and talked at random about my life. I would hope I asked her more questions about her life than prattling on about my own since what could a sheltered girl of 19 really offer a woman with so much life experience? However, what I do remember is after we were done eating I launched into probably another verbose story and I witnessed something as my mouth flapped its gums. Her eyes began to slide from either direction until she abruptly bid me a good day and left our table. Now, I was not done with said story. In fact, I was in the middle of a long winding sentence, but she, like the honey badger, didn’t give two shits. How terribly rude of her, you might think. But that wasn’t what I thought then and it’s most definitely not what I think now. My story was boring, probably disjointed from our conversation, and she simply did not have the time for any of it, so she left, but not before teaching me a very important lesson. Not everything you say is important or particularly funny and when you see others disengaging just stop talking. They aren’t interested and there will be no amount of improvements to your story that will make them care all that much. So, I can read the room. I know when people aren’t interested and I listen rather than incessantly flap my jaws (unless I’ve had two glasses of wine, then I’m a lost cause). But, can America say the same, I wonder? Has the U.S . read the worldly room or is it talking and talking, and then talking some more in one hope or the other that if it is louder, bolder, maybe some one will stand and listen and even perhaps agree with all of that mindless chatter? I hate to say that America has a lot more growing to do, especially in the emotional department and some back pedaling has unfortunately occurred where bloated politicians have given a mouthpiece to the ignorant, the entitled. I hope that I will continue to grow and learn and be and do and I hope that America can do the same. I do really think the World Cup is perhaps the best thing that is happening in our world right now because it’s allowing us to realize that citizens aren’t the real problem, but it’s the people with too much power who are. They delight in division and fear so that we become smaller, more pliable puppets to a show that they are the only audience to. And I for one do not want to go to such a show, even if the admission is free, because I’m not a cog in the ever growing machine. My world may be small, but it’s my world, my life, and that’s important to the one true star in the story of Elizabeth. Maybe America needs its own theatre professor to teach it a thing or two. Maybe then we can properly grow together to enhance everyone’s experience and not just our own. I wonder how my professor would react to America if she was still alive today, although I suspect she might just walk away because honestly who has time for such ignorance and maybe that’s its own little lesson.

I’ve learned a few things over the last few weeks living in Mexico. And it’s not just the living part that has me clutching to the learning curve like a southern woman does with her pearls when she witnesses something particularly scandalous. I know that in Mexico the streets are perpetually uneven, have super slick spots (when it hasn’t rained), water usage has to be somewhat planned, a wack a mole game feels badly played whenever you cross a street or drive down one, and often, very often, mosquitoes take to your blood like you’re their last meal. All of that does take some getting used to, but it’s manageable. But now that we own two properties in this part of the world, our eyes have been widely opened to how things really work in Mexico. Why am I surprised by the past events? I have no clue. I am living in a whole other country; one that operates and beats to its own little unplanned, you must go with the flow, timeliness is a suggestion, heart. And I have written about this before. Last summer when we lived here for a month. However, we were renting, not home owners, and that throws everything into a newly bright perspective. I’m sure all countries have their own idiosyncrasies, I’m sure when moving to America there are things that don’t make sense to the well traveled. Pesticides and growth hormones being one, an over abundance of weird and conflicting freedoms being another. So, Mexico. If things don’t go wrong, they are probably not right to begin with or at the very least that has been our experience thus far. Getting Internet set up felt a bit like climbing a mountain that you keep sliding down from. You may see the top at times, and you know you have to get there at some point, you just don’t know the when and the where of it all. And I can’t really help G all that much. He was at the Internet office for hours and nothing was accomplished. Then they told him they would be at our apartment in Puerto Morales between a very large gap of time, then they changed the date, then when we left to go back home (Playa del Carmen, 30 or so minutes away) they called and said that they were an hour away. When they finally showed up it took two hours for them to tell us the internet couldn’t be connected. We would have to speak to the builder who would need to make a serious change in unblocking something or other, more words I didn’t really understand even if I did speak fluent Spanish. If they would have showed up five or even three hours previously we could have spoken to the necessary people, who were still working on the building, but now it was nine at night. We were both exhausted and the one thing that needed to get accomplished was going to be pushed back yet again with the very real possibility of it not working out all together. Patience is a virtue or so they say. Maybe instead patience should be a practice like yoga or meditation. Maybe then we would have been more prepared. Then there was our air conditioning unit in the Playa apartment. It started to leak. Droplets of water fell down the walls in an annoying display of alerting us to what was wrong and wondering what, if anything we were going to do about it. My poor husband began googling the possible problems and did find a solution. Before I knew it he was taking a part the unit, undoing a tube or two before putting one end into his mouth and sucking the calcium sludge that was clogging said unit. How he has not gotten sick? I have no idea. It must have the famed steel trap of a Mexican stomach. He did grow up in Mexico City after all. However, this has all caused me to wonder how people who have grown up in Mexico feel about the intricacies in their country and how it has shaped their personality. Mexico has consistently been ranked by various polls as the friendliest country to tourists and expats. Something that I find so incredibly interesting. They should not be this happy, I sometimes think to myself, but they are. The heat be heating, the seaweed be smelling, but strangers will greet you with a Buena Dias around every turn and mis shaped pot hole. When booking an appointment, I’m so used to cutting right to the chase. Are you available for this date? How much will it be? And then every time I’m met with a good day, how are you, thanks for contacting us, and then the business at hand is explained. What causes such a jovial nature? Is it the fact that not all things come particularly that easy? The beer that takes the place of water? The tequila that flows like wine? It will perhaps all remain a mystery to me. Although I hope that their good nature runs off on me during my stay here because this is where I want to be this is where I plan to retire and eventually apply for citizenship and drink all the tequilas while chilling on the beach forever and a day.

There’s no pain involved, the husband said. No need to stress or worry, the doctor said. This part is easy, both members of the male council agreed. And they were both 1000% WRONG!!!! It pinched, it stung, there was unpleasant and what I felt to be unnecessary pressure and then some extra pulling for good measure. I was tense, my breast laid opened to the ceiling as I squeezed my eyes tightly closed and then realized with a panic that it wasn’t helping, in fact it was making it quite worse. The pain became more localized. I am eliminating one of the five senses after all, so the other four go into overactive duty to compensate for the one who has given up trying. I think I have reached the end to my pain tolerance this month, I said through teeth that were gritted, between breaths that came out too close together. The doctor chuckled although I think he thought I was joking, which I really wasn’t. I think we all have individual pain tolerances; some people can withstand a whole lot more than others. I find that there are days when I can handle more, but when I have a period of sustained pain my brain won’t allow for one more ounce of it. As if to say enough is finally enough. I can’t handle this for one more moment. When I cracked my femur in 2017, my brain did something very similar, so I do believe that my experience in this particular area is somewhat valid. I had to go to the eye doctor and my doctor at the time was in the mall. I know….classy. I was still on crutches when my designated appointment date arrived. I made the rather lengthy haul to his office. I huffed, I puffed, but there were no straw or stick houses to blow down. Although I really wish there had been. I would have done some real damage and probably could have used the release. My face was blushed red with exertion as I plopped down in the patient’s chair. The nurse performed all of the typical tests that are done before you see the eye doctor and I was fine, I was really doing fine until the dreaded glaucoma test. I have noticed that now this particular test has changed to be a great deal more comfortable, but at that time they were still puffing air into an eye that you had to hold wide and open. I have done this test before, many times in fact. I don’t like it, but have never had that much of a problem until this particular day. I can’t do it, my brain told me and I found, quite to my shocked people pleasing nature, that I was voicing out loud my brain’s demands because I couldn’t actually do the thing and I wouldn’t. The nurse looked at me critically. Her lips sourly pursed in judgement. I will sign whatever you want me to, I said. A waiver or something like that? I promise I won’t sue if I find that I actually have glaucoma. But I am not going through with that test. I just can’t do it. She hastily shooed me into another room to see the doctor and I heard her sharp tone complaining in the next room, but I really didn’t care at this point. How can you explain to someone that you are in pain and it doesn’t ever seem like it’s going to get better? Your brain has reached its limit and so have you and that is just that. Unfortunately, I didn’t have that luxury when getting my stitches removed. It was one of those things that had to happen whether I was ready to handle it or not. I was told that one of the stitches had gotten caught in a part of some scabbing, but I feel it was going to hurt one way or the other. How could it not? I was having little, tiny threads removed from the top of my nipple, a very sensitive area indeed. Haven’t I put my breasts through enough, I thought on the drive home. I am going to have a shot of tequila after this experience, I promptly thought next. In fact, they should make that a staple in every doctor’s office when you have any type of procedure especially when you are wide awake and in an overtly feeling mood. My nail tech has it available when she has to fix ingrown toenails, so why shouldn’t a doctor, especially one who is about to pinch and pull, push and press? It’s all done now I will have you know and I found myself lamenting to the doctor afterwards, I may just be a baby. Although I really don’t think that I was acting as such. Sometimes you just have had enough. Your body is done with your shenanigans and shuts down from the world and all its utensils. I rested the rest of the week. And when I say rested, I mean I probably walked on average 50 steps and that was mainly to the kitchen, to pour a shot of tequila, after having some protein mixed with veggies because you know balance.

I’m not a good patient. That’s what I’ve learned from this experience thus far. I’m not good at laying around. My mind spirals into the softness of where my body I can only imagine is going to settle since I’ve been pretty much vertical since Friday. But… Let’s rewind so I can catch you up. I had surgery a week ago this Friday. It was a cosmetic thing. Not something I needed, but something that I wanted. That alone makes me feel like I shouldn’t complain about any of it. Not to mention the judgment I’m sure I’m receiving from friends and family. And, by the by, if you are judging and reading this, I don’t blame you. I’m judging me too, which I often do, probably way worse then you ever could. I digress… I showed up for surgery at approximately 8:05 AM. Surgery was supposed to start somewhere in the 10 AM range. We went through all the necessary paperwork. Thanks to my husband who had to do most of the writing, the talking, since everything was of course in Spanish. I’m in Mexico if you didnt already know, and that is where I am having this event for it does feel like an event in my life. They escorted me to my room, which was locked. So we waited and then waited a bit more until it was opened and I could get situated. Everything was pristinely clean without that stink that some hospitals carry that makes you feel like a person has just died around the corner. The first nurse came into the room and asked if I was Regina. Um…no, although I’m not opposed to having that name as an alter ego at some point. He looked embarrassed, as he should, scurried away, and came back a few moments later with the correct information. I was a tad trepidatious when I realized that he was the one, the chosen one, who would be needle sticking me in a few minutes so that I could be properly hooked up to an IV. Now reader, I have small veins and if you have read my previous blog, I do not bleed all that much. Maybe because of the size of my veins? (That kind of makes sense in my head.) So, I was expecting this to be some kind of ordeal, but not to the extent that it actually turned into being. I usually drink a ton of water before I get my blood drawn and I was staying properly hydrated weeks leading up to this surgery, I promise you that. But I had to fast from not only food, but liquids for eight hours and I was feeling it. Needless to say, the wrong name calling nurse failed at his mission of attaching me to an IV, and he tried both of my arms. He then called for reinforcements. This new guy tap tapped and then tapped some more. First one arm, then the other. I held my breath, squeezed my eyes tightly closes (like that would help) as he tried, and then failed. A girl nurse was soon called in. Finally, I thought, she will do what the boys cannot. Wrong. Band aide four was soon placed after her failed attempt. The anesthesiologist showed up and we took a break from attempting the needle sticking as she asked me several questions that I assume all anesthesiologist ask. I found myself wanting to be her number one patient and perfect in every possible way. ”Have you ever done any drugs?” She asked. I vehemently shook my head from side to side, indicating a resounding no. I would never do such a thing I wanted my violent head shaking to indicate. ”I need to know,” she continued, “because the medicine you will be receiving plays with the same parts of your brain that certain drugs do.” Oh, I thought. ”She does have her medicinal marijuana card,” my husband thankfully piped in. And I was truthful in saying I haven’t smoked in quite some time, especially since I was preparing for this surgery. ”Have you ever been a cigarette smoker?” She asked next. ”Yes, but it was a long time ago; like 20 years.” She nodded along as I saw in my mind’s eye a month ago. Sitting outside, listening to a band on one of those beautiful, sunny May days. Bumming one cig after another from one friend after another. It was only a month ago, but should I divulge such a thing? What would she think of me. Would they dismiss the whole procedure with an awkward shrug, judgemental eye blink? But if I don’t tell her will I die on the operating table. My lungs playing an I told you we didn’t like that stuff all along, why didn’t you listen to us? It really only serves you right in the end. I didn’t tell her about my day drinking, day cigging excursion if you were wondering. “I’m going to try to get the IV into your arm now,” she stated. Yes, I thought. She looks like she knows what she’s doing. She will get this part done. She did not. My mind was whirling. What am I going to do if they can’t find a vein? Surely I’m not that unique; something that I’m quite used to not being, so let’s not start now, I thought. “The problem is, I can find a vein,” she began to explain. “But because the liquid is a bit thicker, the moment it enters your veins they collapse.” She paused for a moment before continuing. “But, I think I know the nurse who can help.” I love a woman with a solution. ”He works with preemie babies, so he’s used to dealing with small veins. When they take you to the operating area, we will have him try.” She soon left and I was finally alone with the plastic surgeon who had been looking rather bored this whole time. I even watched him yawn more than once, scroll on his phone, and give what I could only assume were annoyed side eyes in my direction as if to say, “Why must you have such small veins to begin with.” This was the first time I actually met him in person. His assistant, my actual doctor, I soon realized, is the personality behind the duo. He is Italian after all and quite gregarious. We went over what I was hoping to accomplish. He brought several implant sizes and I surprisingly went with the largest that he brought. 410 ccs. ”I most likely will do a small lift,” he said. “Since you have lost so much volume on the top of your breast.” And I really have; it has been something that I have been quite self conscience about for the last few years. But why, you may ask. I’ve never had kids; little leeches that suck breasts dry and cause them to deflate like sad little or big (depending) balloons. However, I did gain quite a bit of weight in 2019-2021. About 50 pounds to be exact. And when I gain weight it goes everywhere; face, jaw, neck, arms, hand, stomach, legs, ankles, and yes the breast. They became quite large. Now that I am at a more comfortable, more situated weight, my breast deflated quite a bit. Once all of that was decided I was whisked upstairs with a good luck and a hasty kiss from my husband. I know my eyes were the size of saucers as I was wheeled to the operating room. Nurses of all ages, of all genders, were running around me, each one dealing with their specific task at hand. No one really paying me any mind. Aren’t I the star of the show, I thought. The answer is no. No I’m not. Finally, the anesthesiologist came to my gurney as she brought along another nurse. He must be the one who works with premie babies. He expertly took one arm, put the needle in and viola, I was attached to the IV and the medicine that hopefully would put me asleep until this whole procedure was over. ”Now, when we wheel you into the other side of the room, there’s going to be a lot of people around, putting various items on your body. Don’t be alarmed,” the anasthesiologist said. And I am so glad she gave me the warning because that is exactly what happened. My body was gently tousled from one side to the other as sticky things were placed on my back, my chest. She stood over me and slightly bent down. ”Are you ready for your first shot of tequila?” She asked as she placed, what I could only assume, was the first part of the anathesia into my IV. I guess I’m a light weight, or maybe my tolerance has gone down since I haven’t been drinking the last week or so, for that is really all that it took for me to promptly pass out; the oxygen mask held a few inches from my nose. The whole thing lasted about two hours, I was told. I woke up in quite a bit of pain, although I was in and out of it. I could feel each of the incisions. Finally a nurse asked me, through Google translate (what would we do without modern technology), my pain level. ”Ocho” I croaked. She nodded and proceeded to give me some more of that alleviating good stuff and then I was wheeled into the same room I had been previously where my husband was waiting with LAW AND ORDER, my comfort show, cued and ready for me to watch. I have several things to say about this whole experience. Anathesia makes me quite chatty and I suddenly feel like I can speak Spanish. (I had quite the conversation with the nurse who took me outside). And… After seeing my surgeon the next day what I mistook for arrogance may have been just nerves. He hadn’t met me before, he hadn’t felt or seen my breast in real life before and he was going to be operating on me in one hour. I would be aghast if he didn’t feel a certain type of way about this whole situation. ”I want to let you know,” he said. “All of the nurses in the operating room were women and I wanted to make a small incision on the side of your breasts to lift them a tiny bit more. I asked the women in the room and they unanimously stated that they would rather them not be quite as perky then to have a scar in that particular area, so I listened to their advice.” Wow, was my only thought. I have friends who are nurses and their experience has taught me that is quite rare. A surgeon listening to his nurses without letting his ego get in the way of what is actually right, wrong, and somewhere in between? I’m quite happy with the results so far, if you were wondering. I will be glad to get my stitches removed and to stop taking the pain meds (I don’t know how people can get addicted to this stuff…I hate it) and to finally be able to exercise again, even if it’s only going on a walk without feeling like my breasts are about to pop out of my chest and roll down the sidewalk. Yes, I was holding onto them for dear life as I walked back to our apartment the other day. I was perhaps premature in my walking prowess. I’m glad this whole ordeal is hopefully behind me and the end result will not be met with complications (take it from me, do not go on google to see all the things that could and potentially do go wrong). I’m trying to be better. Reading, watching all of the LAW AND ORDERs I can, doom scrolling, and not getting into my own head about the state of the person I am. I started daily meditations, writing in a manifestation journal, as well as a new book idea to keep me busy, and of course, let’s not forget a skin care routine that would cause even Korean women to look at me in wonder. I do not regret what I have done to my body (what good would it do me anyway), but rather am embracing these new parts of me. They probably need a name (am open for any suggestions) since I adopted them and I do hope they get along with my sometimes moody, often cranky, always self deprecating self or maybe they will provide the joy I sometimes need for my dopamine levels to be on the same level as everyone elses. Only time will tell of course and I promise you I will keep you abreast of all of it.

The Anxious Traveler's Dilemma I don’t know what I ever did to spring for her to be such a total diva. One minute she’s warm and inviting, and the next, she’s freezing me out like I’m some kind of unwanted guest. Her lack of decisiveness has really been adding to my bad mood lately. It really comes down to the fact that I need sunshine. And I’m obviously not getting that out of spring. The truly tragic part is that she can be such a lovely person when she wants to be. The flowers bloom, the birds tweet, and everything feels alive. But then, out of nowhere, she gets royally pissed off and decides that doom and gloom is more her vibe. The skies open, the rain falls, and the clouds turn everything dark and gray, ruining my sunshine plans yet again. What did I ever do to her, I sometimes wonder, for her to behave so manically? But then I had a thought. Isn’t she behaving just like a woman? One that’s probably perimenopausal, actually, and maybe that is what global warming has done to her. It’s turned her once sunny disposition into something so unbelievably gloomy that all I want to do is lay in bed with the sheets pulled high over my head. If it’s going to be dark outside in the middle of the day, I might as well make it an indoor thing, right? The Impact of Spring's Mood Swings Spring’s obnoxious behavior is impacting my everyday mood, my daily routine, and honestly, I’ve had enough of her nonsense. When was she allowed to control my overall person? I have to ask myself. As harsh as I’m being with her, I do understand where she’s coming from. She shows up, and people quite literally lose their minds. Months of cold and oversized clothing can do that to a person. The owl in Bambi was right when he described what happens during this season. “Your head spins, you feel light as a feather, and you completely lose your control,” he states to Bambi when he becomes confused by Rabbit's unusual behavior. It’s called being twiterpated. Unfortunately, such foolish behavior has fallen on the soft shoulders of spring, and she is forever reminding us that she is not happy about it. She doesn’t like being around people who are running in circles for no reason, blushing when the opposite or same sex looks at them in a certain way, and then there’s the giggling. Oh, that dreadful, high-pitched, annoying sound that is not quite a laugh but something else altogether. It feels like a singular fingernail running down the length of your back. So, are we all that surprised that she has turned the sun into gray matter and the light into raindrops? Maybe that will stop them, she probably mutters under her breath. And it might, for a time at least, but I almost feel like it makes it all worse. For that one sunny day that appears, everyone’s behavior exceeds their normal annoyance tenfold. The Anticipation of Summer Fortunately, summer is just around the corner. My body craves the scorching heat like a cat to her scratching pad. I need it to feel alive. I want the sunglasses, the sweat making puddles down my back, the small dresses, my hair pulled up high off of the back of my neck, and I want it now. Spring can just go away for all I care, and I suspect she will be very happy to do so. Then I can regain some of my sunnier disposition, nestled deep in the sand with an iced beverage or two and a book in my hand. Embracing the Journey Traveling with anxiety can feel like trying to navigate a maze while blindfolded. You know there’s a way out, but every twist and turn seems to lead you deeper into confusion. I’ve been there, and let me tell you, it’s not easy. But here’s the thing: you can still explore the world, even with an anxious heart. I remember my first trip after realizing I had to face my anxiety head-on. I was a bundle of nerves, pacing in my living room, wondering if I should just cancel everything and stay home. But then I thought, “What if this trip is the very thing that helps me?” So, I packed my bags, took a deep breath, and off I went. Finding Support on the Road One of the best things I discovered was the importance of finding a supportive community. Whether it’s online forums, social media groups, or local meet-ups, connecting with others who understand your struggles can make a world of difference. You realize you’re not alone in this journey, and that shared experience can be incredibly comforting. And let’s not forget about the power of preparation. I found that having a plan in place helped ease my anxiety. Knowing where I was going, what I would do, and even having a backup plan made me feel more secure. It’s like having a safety net, ready to catch you if you stumble. Embracing the Unexpected Of course, travel is unpredictable. You can plan all you want, but sometimes things go awry. Flights get delayed, weather changes, and plans fall through. But here’s the beauty of it: those unexpected moments often lead to the most memorable experiences. I once got lost in a foreign city, and instead of panicking, I decided to embrace it. I stumbled upon a quaint little café where I met some locals who shared stories and laughter. It turned out to be one of the highlights of my trip. Conclusion: A Journey Worth Taking So, as spring continues her mood swings, I remind myself that summer is just around the corner. I’ll take the heat, the sunshine, and the adventures that await. And even if anxiety tries to creep in, I’ll face it head-on, knowing that every step I take is a step toward embracing the world, one anxious heartbeat at a time. In the end, travel is possible, even with an anxious heart. So, pack your bags, take a deep breath, and let’s hit the road together. After all, the world is waiting for us, and who knows what incredible experiences lie ahead?

My cat Edgar is 11. He’s become a bit crusty as the years have gone by. The other day I noticed he had a rather substantial growth on the very top of his head. My husband, not to be deterred by such things, messed with it enough to determine that it was completely filled with fluid. It comes and goes periodically, although the why in that is to be determined. Then, there is my mother. She recently had a growth that developed on her temple. It was causing her headaches so she promptly went to her primary care physician who then referred her to a dermatologist. “No need to be alarmed,” he stated as he numbed the mass before slicing it off with a flick of one wrist and then slathering some vaseline on the abused area. “But what causes such a thing to just randomly start to grow?” My mother inquired. He shrugged his shoulders. “That’s just what happens when go get old,” he nonchalantly replied. Ouch, I thought. The truth can really hurt, I thought next. Is that what's going to happen to me? I thought third. Random growths appearing like unwanted friends on my body wanting to be the center of my attention as they congratulate me on a life well lived. I surely hope not. I was wrong of course. A month ago I did my yearly mammogram screening. I always feel like such an adult when I do the difficult, but not necessarily required adult things. I had both breasts slammed into a machine, squished beyond recognition, and then waited the week or so for the results. Usually, my breasts pass with flying colors and I'm rather proud of the girls for not causing me any problems, but that was not this year. Unfortunately, they saw something. Not a large something, but a something nonetheless. Back I went to be poked, prodded, looked at with what I can only hope was a critical eye or two. “You have a cyst,” my doctor informed me. “Nothing to be too concerned about, however…” (Don’t you hate the howevers) "Most cysts are fluid sacks. Yours looks to be more solid." It’s happening, I couldn’t help but to think. The old age thing where growths suddenly appear internally and then externally with nary an explanation besides the fact that you are just growing old. “We can biopsy it for your peace of mind or you can wait six months and we can recheck that it has not grown any larger.” I chose the former option. It’s weird to think I have a thing living inside of me. It looks circular, and looks to be the blackest of black holes. Thus began my endless amount of research, my endless amount of buying vitamins for breast health, and my endless amount of searching reddit for what an ultra sound breast biopsy will look and feel like. “I was screaming in pain,” one woman posted. “The worst experience of my life, and that includes giving birth,” someone else wrote. I could feel my heart rate increase; I could feel my palms become clammy and my underarms sweaty. I have found that sometimes you can endure pain (like sitting for an eight hour tattoo) and other times you are really just not in the mood. I don’t want to be poked, exposed, examined. I can just envision the whole terrible ordeal and I can assure you with 100 percent certainty that I don’t want to do any of it. But… There is a time in all of our lives that we have to pull our big girl panties over our bum. Face the doctors, the clicking machines, the needles, the loose fitting hospital gowns, the cold, sterile rooms, and just do those hard things whether or not your brain is screaming in protest. I’m being a brat, I couldn’t help think as my husband asked if I wanted to get brunch afterwards and I snarled out a loud NO like I was some sort of beast that’s lived under a bridge these many years. I will fast forward through the specifics of the procedure and let you know that I worried for nothing. It didn’t actually hurt beside a very mild prick and burning sensation and the whole procedure took at the most 10 minutes. “I really don’t think that you have anything to worry about,” my doctor sweetly said, half ponytail hanging long down her back. “But we will get your results in about a week and then we will know for sure.” If it’s benign the growth will just live in me I suppose until my body decides that enough is finally enough and it dissolves into the rest of my body, which is another weird thing to think about. I've named my cyst Carolyn, if you were wondering and it’s yet to be determined if she is a nice friend to have or one of those bitches that just takes and takes from you and then is no where to be found when you need to do some of that taking for once. I really hope that she’s of the nice variety and we can live together in this world peacefully. Maybe she’s some sort of angel protecting me from the inside out and I like feeling that way rather than the much darker alternative. I will keep you posted as to the results. Fingers crossed Carolyn is just one of those zany friends who makes a few crazy appearances before disappearing without a trace. Note: I received the results the next day, which caused my heart to skip more than a few beats. Carolyn is a nice friend to have is the conclusion the doctor made to me over the phone and she will continue being that way until she decides to leave me alone and perhaps inhabit someone else's breast for awhile.

I saw a man today struggling to push around what seemed to be 10 scuba diving tanks, in a cart, up a very steep hill. It was the middle of the day. Big rolls of sweat were running down his weathered face as he let out a loud grunt and then another one for good measure. I watched his struggle and he looked at me watching his struggle. I wanted to help him; I should have helped him. I firmly believe that it’s always good to put a few well placed karma strands into the universe. But, my hands were full with a coffee, a bag, and a brain that was screaming at me that there would be a language barrier involved and what if he shunned my need for helpfulness; although I don’t think that he would have. I saw a rooster today nibbling on a tortilla chip. He belonged to someone because he had a bowl of grains nestled in the corner of one wall. A few chicks were clucking about its red clawed feet. I watched its chin hang to the ground as it picked at its food. It ignored me of course. Something that I was actually all too glad about. I’ve seen such roosters before and they can be little hellionous although this one was’t little at all, but quite large. I wonder if he is someone’s pet or is rather being raised to then be slaughtered and then devoured by greedy hands and hungrier stomachs. I saw a beach today. It was filled with seaweed that smelled putrid and urine soaked. There were piles of it everywhere as men in coveralls shoveled the nasty stuff as fast as they possibly could. But, it was coming in way faster than what they could manage. What a life, I couldn’t help but to think, but they didn’t seem all that upset about their chosen work load. I know the seaweed is deterring tourists from coming to this part of the world. I see it with vacant buildings that used to be filled with a restaurant or two, some having been there for quite some time. ”It’s just so dirty and smelly,” I hear the tourists say with a wrinkled brow and a pursing of the lips. “Our whole trip is ruined,” they whine next as they pout in their resort over watered downed margaritas and American style Mexican food. But isn’t this all our fault to begin with? I can’t help but to wonder. Humans are dirty and smelly, like the seaweed that is so loathsome to them now and our land, now filled with waste from fast fashion, fast food, a fast life, is just crying out for a reprieve. “The ocean is on her period,” I chuckled into my phone as I filmed a tiktok, one of my many cringy obsessions of late. But I really don’t think that’s it at all. The ocean is saying rather,” You people treat me dirty with your oil spills, pollution, and degradation of my space, I will show you just how dirty I can be.” Unfortunately, Mexico is where she has decided to unleash her wrath; at least for now, but who knows where her future locations will be? I saw a Mexican mother yelling at her son today. She was speaking in Spanish of course, but some things you just know. Her son, the one she was inflicting her anger upon deserved the tongue lashing. His pouted mouth, slumped shoulders, and whiny tone of voice told me all that I needed to know. His attitude was rotten, probably not getting something he thought his preteen self deserved. I hope the mother did not give in to her son’s wants and I suspect she probably did not based on the sharpness of her jawline that almost perfectly matched the sharpness of her tone. I saw myself resting on the beach today. A manifestation journal in one hand, pen in another.(Does anyone practice manifestation and what have you manifested into existence?) It can’t hurt I thought to myself as I watched the tide come in, listened to the beach club beach clubbing and then I put it all away and decided to call an end to my afternoon of exploration. Who knows what tomorrow will entail and the next day and even the day after that. A lot can happen to us quiet ones. The ones that listen, observe, and allow life to happen quietly in this loud world of ours.

So, I haven’t been able to sleep much the last few nights. Our two month Mexican adventure is rapidly approaching and my anxiety about the whole thing is at an all time high. I worry about my animals of course, even though we are having a house sitter stay to watch them, but I know that Frida has already surmised that something is amiss. I found her the other day hiding in one of our suitcases, as if to say, “You must take me to Mexico on this trip. Have you forgotten where I am from after all? I will never forgive you if you don't hide me in this huge thing.” Our dog Margarita will forget my existence in probably point three seconds after I leave her sight. She is a bit like Dory from Finding Nemo and Edgar…well Edgar just wants his food promptly on time and it doesn't really matter who is necessarily the giver in that. But, the real crux of the matter is that I will be having surgery the first Friday that we arrive and I’m a bit freaked out about it, mainly because it’s an elective sort of thing. I’ve noticed throughout the years, with my weight fluctuations, that my breasts are rapidly heading down south, so I decided, with the help of modern technology, to do something about it. I met with the plastic surgeon who will be performing the surgery via whatsapp facetime for on Tuesday. He was very professional, but did want to see what he would be working with….understandable, I thought…and should have been expected. However, it did not deter me from trying to take my sports bra off over my shirt, my husband turning the camera around so as to get a better angle, and my arms getting stuck somewhere between the straps of my bra and the arms of my shirt. I felt like a baby walrus as I flapped about trying to free at least one of my arms as my husband was filming the whole thing like I was in some sort of porn blooper reel. Why am I like this, I thought. Never one to be elegant or smooth, but always having a weird catch in my overall carriage. We discussed options once I freed myself of my shirt. I waffled on what size I wanted to have. I never thought I would do this sort of surgery, but here we are. I promised to send him images of what I would like my breasts to look like and then asked about the anesthesia and any precautions I should be taking. “I have stopped taking all of my vitamins,” I proudly stated. “And I haven’t had a sip of alcohol,” I continued, also very proudly. “I am a rule follower about some things,” I hastily added, emphasizing the some. I didn't want him to think I'm too much of a square after all. He raised one eyebrow before cocking his head to one side. I didn’t know what I was expecting him to say…that he was proud of me for my self restraint…or maybe a clapping of hands and a bravo for my will power. That’s not what happened of course. The expected is so rarely, well, expected in my world. “That’s not really necessary,” he said. “How many vitamins do you take anyway?” He continued with a slight chuckle. And then I muttered something about creatine, B12, magnesium, and peptides lots and lots of peptides. “I’m trying to maintain as much youth as I can,” I nervously stuttered before somewhat manically giggling. “And don’t really worry about the alcohol,” he said, ignoring the last part of my mumbled words. “I mean don’t get wasted but a couple tequilas or even a margarita is not the end of the world.” Tell me you're Mexican, without telling me you're Mexican, I couldn’t help but to think. “And I like to perform under local anesthesia, but we will talk to the anesthesiologist once you get here,” he briefly added and I found myself nodding along and mouthing the word yes like that makes perfect sense to me. It doesn’t by the way. I do not want to be awake for this thing. Quite the contrary. I want to be dead asleep and wake up with everything being over and properly put in its place and then have license to be lazy with my skin care and downloaded Law and Order episodes for much of the foreseeable future. In essense, I want to time travel into my future and forget the whole someone is cutting into my chest, moving the muscles aside, and planting a foreign object inside of me in hopes that my body will just comply to the unwanted intrusion. Once the call was over I felt a sinking in my chest. I don’t think he likes me at all, I thought, and then, I really hope he wants to do my surgery, like that is what I should be focused on and concerned about in this moment. But I do find that I am concerned about such things because I’m an anxious person, and always want to be the good student or patient even though it shouldn’t really matter. "I think he will like anyone paying him this kind of money," A stable minded friend told me and I found myself nodding along with her statement too as my mouth formed the words yes and of course you’re right. I’m holding my breath until this whole thing is over and I’m really trying not to scour the internet for personal stories, the ones that always seem to end in nightmares, because that doesn’t do anyone any good. I’m also trying to abstain from alcohol, even though he gave me the green light to indulge a tiny bit, but maintaining a level of dryness will probably do my body quite a bit of good. I will update you on how I do and I pray sleep will find me at some point and it will be a sleep that is fitful, dreamless, and will carry me through this self induced trauma.