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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.

What do you do when you’re not THAT GIRL? You know the one She gets recognized amongst strangers nails the job interview or audition that she barely wanted and didn’t prepare for has her very first TikTok go viral without really giving a damn and then gets the literary agent after writing her first book without it going through a plethora of edits rewrites and lots and lots of self loathing Maybe I'm exaggerating but there are times like this week where I really don’t think that I am It’s been one of those not end of the world should count my blessings but each rejection stings as badly as the last kind of weeks I don’t feel seen or heard I write a blog that very few people read (and if you are reading right now, I am beyond thrilled, so thank you) I post on social media to less than 100 views and one like and one unfollow I wrote a book that no one wants to read (yes, I’ve had volunteers, but they never ever get back to me) and the literary agents who have read my words have rejected them I think the last rejection I got said the story wasn’t captivating enough and doesn’t that just sum up the person I am The non captivating sort I don’t know why this is surprising to me I have never been the one that everyone flocked to because of the fluff in my hair or the rosiness in my cheeks or my witty remarks It’s a confidence thing I fear, something that I have always struggled to obtain and if I ever have it to maintain It’s quite disheartening this lack of confidence Although I do have other things that I’m good at being self aware is one having empathy is another But that all empowering confidence is what I wish that I could muster I wonder if my diffidence comes across in my writing and that’s why the rejections are piling up I wonder if my insecurity comes across in my social media presence and that’s why my views and likes are so low I wonder if my timidity comes across in the writing of this blog and that’s why my readership has waned Probably is my answer to all of the above I know I need to embrace the confidence that I lack Dive deep into it until it’s comfortable cozy and unapologetically me Because that’s who I really am anxious insecure writer reader friend animal mother wife the antithesis of THAT GIRL.

I prefer to live my life in certain ways. A bit regimented, some probably would probably conclude, until I’m not. I’m what you would consider one of those all or nothing people. Moderation is so very hard for me to maintain. I would rather stray to two different sidelines and reside there for a bit until I’m drawn back like a magnet to something that is altogether different. When I get something stuck in my head, it’s hard to let much of it go. It may be an idea, a way of eating or dressing or even a workout routine. I find it comforting knowing how my day is going to be laid out. The monotony in things should never be ignored, dear reader, for the routine can be comforting But... when my new found routine is broken, a motor begins to buzz in my head. "How could you not do what you promised yourself," it spats. "You really have let us all down," it chimes. I try to ignore such ill voiced thoughts, knowing that they only take place in a crevice of my brain. But... sometimes it feels so very good to lean into such thoughts; lean into the routine, and just obey the buzzing for a little while longer. I’m not saying that each day is exactly the same given the week. But for me Mondays will look like a Monday, Tuesday like a Tuesday and so forth and so on. Let me provide an example of my scheduled week. Monday: AM Workout: weight training arms A shot of GLOW peptides A shot of GLP-1 PM 30 minute Sauna Skin care routine: red light therapy, hyaluronic acid, retinol, moisturizer, castor oil Supper: seafood soup (from our local Chinese restaurant) and half of a mustard and ham sandwich Tuesday AM Workout: weight training legs A shot of Glow peptides PM 60 minute heated Yoga (usually on Tuesday, but sometimes I will change it to a Wednesday) and then the days I don’t do yoga I do the sauna Skin care routine: red light therapy, collagen, moisturizer, retinol oil Supper: this does vary, but it's usually something soup related Wednesday AM Workout: 30 minutes cardio (usually a Peloton cycling session) A shot of Glow peptides Write first draft of blog PM 30 minute Sauna (if I don’t do yoga on Tuesday) Skin care routine: red light therapy, special, more expensive moisturizer, medicube overnight mask Supper: this does vary, but usually breakfast for dinner Thursday AM Workout: 45 minutes weight training arms and legs A shot of Glow peptides PM 30 minute Sauna Skin care routine: same as Monday Supper: varies but usually wings or shrimp, scallops, and mashed cauliflower Friday AM A shot of Glow peptides 60 minute heated yoga First revision of blog PM Date night with husband Skin care routine: same as Tuesday So... you can see what I mean. It’s all very planned, very regimented. I do try to keep the weekends open; it actually provides the brain break that I need to just go with the flow for awhile without overthinking what I perhaps did not do, but need to do, to feel complete. I do have a lengthy Sunday self care routine, that is a must of course, but I won't bore you with those details. I really blame my dad’s genetics for some of this. I grew up with his OCD tendencies, however, for him they manifested themselves on making sure everything was as clean as it possibly could ever be. He broke more than one dish and even an appliance or two trying to scrub them to a bright sheen. He was even told by the dentist at one point that he needed to quit brushing his teeth quite so hard because he had literally brushed the enamel off of them. Oh, how I wish my tendencies filtered into the cleaning department. (or maybe I don't because it does seem so very exhausting) Once I begin something, repeat it more than once, my brain simply refuses to let it go and it festers upon making it into a habit. I have had disruptions along the way; where I haven’t been able to complete my designated schedule and I do have to talk myself out of the mind numbing, earth shattering buzzing, spiral because I know this is all not healthy. Life is not meant to be so scheduled, I think. Life can be messy of course and filled with the pitfalls and detours that make it special. I'm glad that I have come to terms with that small fact at least. I will tell you it was touch and go there for a while in my youth, but I suppose that is what age does. It makes you recognize the mistakes you have made and hopefully will provide you with tools to not repeat such things again. I do believe that my go with the flowness has improved even though I like the consistency of certain regiments and I hope to keep them in my life for awhile at least, just as long as they don't disrupt my actually living this life.

It’s that time of year again where what was once considered a small annoyance becomes a something that I loathe over and over again. I’m talking about high school aged children, if you didn’t already know. I say children because that’s what they are, children in too large, too awkward bodies. I guess I’m becoming that old person now. You know the ones. They filtered through your youth with a scowl or two directed at your loud immaturity. But I never behaved how the children that I'm around on a too daily basis do, surely not. I know I wasn't this disrespectful, or this level of loud, surely I wasn’t whatever these kids nowadays are. I know I was never this entitled. I can assure you my parents taught me better than that and I know I respected my teachers. I did have my moments of immaturity of course. I recall the time I convinced the boy sitting next to me to eat crayons while my English teacher prattled on about Shakespeare or Dickens or some other great writer that I didn’t have the capacity to appreciate at the time. I thought his crayon eating antics were hilarious. My teacher did not, probably because we were seniors and this was an honors class. But I could communicate with people, I know that much at least. When asked if I ever needed help, I would never grunt my response. I could explain myself. This makes me wonder who's really to blame for the downfall of this new, confusing, and not at all likeable generation? Is it social media? Has it in fact killed the art of conversation? There have been so many times that students ask for my help, but have somehow gone quite mute. They can’t describe their needs, their wants. I have to play the 20 question game just to gather some sort of semblance of an idea of how I can help them. I feel that they have reverted to a version of the caveman. “Me want chromebook.” “Chromebook….dead.” “Fix now.” And honestly most of the girls dress in that sort of fashion anyway. Sports bras are now a shirt. Skirts are no longer opaque, but leave nothing to the imagination. I know what you're thinking. You must be exaggerating; it can’t really be all that bad. Oh dear reader, it's so much worse. Last week all of the boys' bathrooms were locked and in need of repair because the students have stuffed the sinks, the toilets, so that they overflow in a disgusting display of what they probably think is hilarious, but is actually vandalising community property. Where are the consequences? You may ask next and there probably are some, but parents have to be onboard to enforce such a thing. The school can only do so much when parents block the school number, refuse to pick up their disorderly child when called, and then refuse to believe the teacher for what they have seen with their two eyes, but maybe didn’t hear with their two ears. And don’t get me started on how the government is not helping matters. They have tied the school’s metaphorical hands. Schools can no longer punish a student for breaking the rules if they want to maintain their government funding. We don't want the community to think that their youth is out of control, right? Better to pretend that all is well, than to showcase what is actually happening. If you don't write the referral, than the referral doesn't exist and neither does the discipline problem. But how is that teaching anyone anything? We are just setting the young up for a heap load of failure and future annoyances later. Prime example: this weekend we went to get hamburgers at CJs Butcher Boy, a higher end fast food burger restaurant. Two high school students were working. We got home and everything was cold and the double meat patty was missing ALL of the meat except for a tiny sad piece of bacon. How does that even happen, I wondered at the time, but I do have an idea. When there are no consequences to be heard of in school, a place that such things should be taught, and at home, a place that such things should be for sure be taught, than what is the motivation? It's certainly not the feeling of doing a good job for the sake of pleasing your boss or the customer. Those days are long gone. It seems that today everyone wants so much for doing so little. I don’t know what our world is coming to and thinking about it makes my brain want to scream. I wonder if this is a United States problem or a global one, although I find it hard to believe that such youthful antics would be tolerated in Russia or even China for that matter. I know I can't control any of the above and all that I can control is myself and myself is heading to the beach. A place that allows me to forget about the annoyances of the world, live in my safe little bubble full of street tacos, the sun, and a good bathing suit, and be thankful that I chose a lifestyle free of the extra worry that raising a child in today's world will most assuredly bring.

This has been a week.  A week where nothing has gone quite as I planned.  A week where my brain felt foggy like it was having trouble playing catch up to the intricacies of a life. I wish I could say I handled each sudden change with a graceful smile, a patient nod, a breezy wave.  I most certainly did not, if you were wondering. I screamed at one point, cried at another, I may have even melted a bit. I turned into the four year old version of myself.  Actually, I think my inner child would have winced a time or two at such a display and I really can’t blame her for that.  It all started when I forgot the meeting I had at 8AM on Monday morning.  I was already heading to work, but was at least five minutes away and another five minute walk once I parked. When I eventually looked at my phone, saw the message from my boss, I promptly preceded to give into the heart palpitations, the cold icky sweats that were already settling behind my neck, underneath my arms.  I took a few deep breaths when I finally stood outside of his office door and then glanced at my watch to determine how late I actually was. Twenty minutes if you were wondering. I rolled my shoulders back, knowing that I just would have to put my big girl panties on to get through this embarrassing moment and then I timidly knocked on his door.  I heard several voices inside, more than the two I was told would be in attendance.  When the door eventually swung open I was met with six faces.  I was a bit confused and then preceded to spend the rest of the hour trying to play catch up to what everyone was in the middle of talking about.  Needless to say I’m in charge of a club now.  I had really hoped that my club sponsoring days were behind me, but I guess that serves me right for being late to a meeting that had been in my calendar for over a week.  The sad thing was that I had not even thought about this meeting.  It hadn’t even entered my brain cells for a moment all weekend, all morning.  Then, that same day, I received a text from my gynocologist’s office, telling me that I had a tele health appointment scheduled the next day.  What the heck, I thought.  I didn’t schedule such a thing.  I sent the doctor’s nurse a message, alerting them to what I was positive was their mistake.  The nurse who called me back a few hours later was very confused and understandably so. “We don’t have a doctor by that name,” she said over the phone. “Well, I don’t know what to tell you,” I replied, and a bit hastily at that.  When the call ended it hit me.  I do have a doctor’s appointment the next day, but it wasn’t a telehealth visit, it wasn’t even a gynecologist visit.  It was to my dermatologist.  I had gotten the doctor completely wrong, the type of appointment completedly wrong, everything completely wrong.  Where has my brain gone?  I thought next.  Somewhere between Mexico and Arkansas apparently.  I wonder if I can pick it up in the Pacific Ocean next to the sea turtles and sargassum or maybe that's my own wishful thinking. I was looking forward to the next day.  A fresh start I thought.  I would get home from work, take my 6 PM yoga class, and relax for the rest of the evening.  “We have a concert tonight,” my husband said when he called on my way to work. “What?” I whined, not even trying to keep the high pitch from my voice. I could feel the relaxing evening I had planned for come crashing down like falling dominos. When did I become this person?  I asked myself. The one that is tied to her plans.  The one that hates to deviate from said plans.  The one that goes into a full blown panic attach when the plan is paused, interrupted, or completely changed.  I want to be breezy; I want to be pliable.  Have I always been like this or is this the new me? I don’t like this change.  It causes a panic in myself that I have trouble recognizing and can’t control, and then there's sweating, always lots and lots of sweating.  Maybe one day I can breathe through the ever changing plans and recognize that life cannot be counted on for its seemlessness; its inability to maintain straight lines, because that’s not really what life is all about at the end of the day.  It’s filled with curves, deep grooves and tons of ptfalls and maybe the knowing of that will eventually help me to maintain a level of calm that I try to grasp, but feel that I'm constantly letting slip though my fingers like tiny, fine granules of sand.  Will I ever be able to hang on to those bits of sand? Will I one day win the battle against my own mind? I know that's where all of that anxiety is rooted.  But today is unfortunately not the day; this week is not the week. So, I will just have to continue to take those long cleansing breaths, continue to take my yoga classes when I can, as long as another concert does not disturb them, and try to encourage the demon within to fade and then hopefully disappear altogether.

Womanhood. It’s not for the weak. It's full of peaks and valleys, mountains and canyons, rosey feelings and dark thoughts. I am thankful that more is being done to recognize the changes that women have to go through. In the 90s, when my mother was going through such things, there was little to no knowledge out there. Women were just expected to smile through the hormone changes, lack of libidio, weight gain for no apparent reason, body aches, mood shifts, hot flashes, and the list goes on and varies depending on the person, depending on the woman. We are snowflakes, each one more unique than the other. Our own special genetic makeup dictating how we should feel and when we should feel it. I am going through said change. When I asked my mother, my one and only gauge, as to how she felt during this time, she looked at me a bit puzzled like she had no idea what I might mean. Aren't I too young to be going through menopause, I'm sure she was thinking She didn’t know about the dreaded before when your body and mind ceases to make any kind of sense to you. Menopause was kind of talked about I suppose or more like whispered in darkened allyways, but the awful purgatory that happens before the dreaded M word was a mystery. I believe that my mother, and many of the other women during this time, just felt like this was their life now. Anxiety riddled, worry bloated. Divorce and suicide of women spike during this time and now I understand why. It’s not fair, I want to scream to the masses, and I want the masses to all be made up of men. They should know what it feels like to be a stranger in your own body. Things that caused you no pain, no feelings of angst in your past, now are a bigger deal than you can ever imagine. Bubbling anger threatens to overtake your brain at the most inoportune moments. Three A.M. becomes your new wakeup call. Blankets become a torture chamber as you are freezing one minute and then wrestling them off of your too hot body the next. (Any one else have legs that are too hot and arms that are too cold? And it only seems to happen at night.) Research is still needed to be done or at the very least a bit of communication. I love telling my doctors, even the female ones, my symptoms and instead of possible solutions I’m met with blank stares and maybe a sympathetic nod or two if I'm lucky. Perimenopause wasn’t even recognizes as a term until the 1960s-1970s. In the 1980s more research was being done, but I feel it hasn’t been until perhaps the 2020s that woman are sharing their stories. It's no longer something that is whispered, but something discussed in forums on line, through instagram, tiktok, and men are even joining the conversation. These progressive males who are not afraid to recognize that their wives are going through something abhorrent and they should be praised, instead of shunned for the feelings that crowd their minds, their bodies, their souls. I'm lucky enough to have one of those progressive males by my side. He has done his own research or at the very least watches the plethora of videos I send him daily to show that I am not alone and crazy in what I am experiencing. I'm so grateful for his patience, and he has to have a lot of it, during the times that I spiral and then feel monstrous and out of control after. I wish I was more graceful, more patient, more kind during those times. I have embraced things that have helped. Self care makes me feel like a different person, although I may be taking it to the next level. (The Amazon driver probably agrees as he delivers yet another box of lotions, serums, eye and forehead patches, chin wraps, etc. to our house.) But you have to do what makes you happy, and this time is the most crucial because losing bits and pieces of your femininity like a slow burning volcano is no joke, should not be ignored, and should be embraced for the strength all of us women have to possess to endure such a thing.

It’s official official.  We have closed on our apartment in Mexico.  We’ve done all of the things at this point, even  added a bit of our own style and moved some of our clothes into their new home, but reader, my oh double my, what an experience it all was. I knew this apartment was going to be quirky after seeing the pictures on line, but I was still not quite prepared.  Let’s start with the spare bedroom.  If you look at the picture to your right, you will see a colorful print. I actually thought it was a collage of flowers at first. Oh how innocent, oh how quaint of me.   Yes, your eyes are not deceiving you. That is a naked woman duplicated four times over.  When you move down a short hallway later you come to the living room and kitchen. On one of the most prominent walls is a painting featuring a girl eating an apple with her legs spread a bit wider than what would be considered innocent. Directly to the left of the kitchen is the master bedroom where there is another framed print on one of the walls. A beautiful girl is laying on her side. Her breasts hit a white wall and black paint oozes from various parts of her naked body to hide what some would consider the most important bits.   But the real kicker was when I went back into the living room, sat on the light gray couch, a real selling point for its vintage flare, and noticed the coffee table book.   You can see why it caught my attention. It's important to note here that the t!s were not used as cover-ups on the actual magazine cover. At this point I was not really all that surprised, given the overall decorative theme. All I could really think about was that my husband's parents had toured the apartment for us about a month ago and what must they have thought? They did give their nod of approval, so they must not have been to scandalized. Out of curiosity I began to look through the magazine. The nudity was tastefully done, more like art pieces than anything too gratuitous. I didn't feel like I was looking through a Playboy, but rather an art deco magazine.  One picture in particular actually inspired the large painting of the girl on the wall. I had never heard of Treat! magazine before, but now I know quite a lot about it, thanks to Google and Instagram.  The magazine was launched in 2011 by Steve Shaw, a noted photographer who at one point shot for Maxim magazine and created this magazine as a “sanctuary for artistic, uncensored, and non commercial photography."   The magazine would go on to feature other famous photographers. All of this new knowledge only propelled my curiosity further as the closing date approached and the previous owners, I was told, would be in attendance. I didn't really know much about them besides the fact that they  were Canadian and were going to continue to live in Mexico. The day of our closing arrived.  We ran into the notary's office, running late per usual.  They looked normal enough, I thought on my first sight of them, he being a bit on the more extravagant side, eyebrow ring, very fluid in movement and style.  When we were ushered into the conference style room it soon became clear that they were not just Canadian, but French Canadian.  He spoke mostly French, English, and passable Spanish.   She, on the other hand, was tightly built, her blunt blonde hair brushed ever so slightly across her shoulders.  Her eyes were intense and her hand movements even intenser.  She spoke rapid French, rapid Spanish, and rapid English.  The couple kept turning to their realtor, although I later found out he was their assistant to the assistant.  (Who brings such a person along and who even has an assistant to the assistant?!?)  Most of the conversation was in Spanish with French paragraphs thrown in before all parties looked to me periodically and spoke English, like I should know where exactly they were in the conversation, which I assure you I did not, but I did my fair share of nodding like you would when you're pretending a comprehension that you haven’t even come close to grasping. They had gutted the apartment, they told us.  Hired an American architect.  One reason everything is so well constructed and put together, the woman proudly exclaimed.  Then they hired an interior designer. “We love your style,” G matter of factly stated and they both exchanged a kind of glance that I didn’t quite understand, but also didn't really care to, if I’m being completely honest. We really aren’t going to do too much to change the decor of the apartment if you were wondering.  We added a painting featuring Frida and another abstract one. We bought both from a local artist in Mexico.  The colors actually compliment the rest of the apartment.  Almost like our paintings were meant to be placed in just such a place.  We probably will have to replace some of the prints because the humidity is causing them to bubble up a bit, but I still want to find something altogether similar.  The magazine will stay a coffee table book, as will the painting of the girl on the wall. I can’t wait to get back to my art filled oasis in the sun.  Two more months and I will finally be able to live there.  I will finally be able to expand my sometimes closed off mind to the possibilities of the strange, the unique, the beautiful and my true self can commence into being something I can be proud to call my own.