Nothing gives me more anxiety than driving.  I hate it and I would be the first one to tell you I'm not very good at it.  I don’t know if these two things are somehow related, but the likelihood that they are is probably pretty good.  Isn't the things we aren't really good at usually the hated ones? Or should it spur some kind of reaction on my part to practice said thing so that I can become better at said thing?  Is that what more accomplished people do, I sometimes wonder, hone in on their flaws so that their life can be a dedication to improve on all the things that hinder that quest for perfection? I must have given up on this ideal a long time ago because I find that I don’t really care all that much about getting better at driving.  I’ve thought about the why in this of couse and it comes down to the fact that there are just too many variables involved.  I have to share the road with many a maniac for one, some potential serial killer or pedophyle or just plain crazy person.  How I am supposed to relax when I’m told that collectively I have to put my trust in such individuals?  Can I really trust that they will stop when told to, will yield when appropriate?  I can't help having a myriad of potentially life threatening outcomes flash before me when I get into my car every morning. Might this be the last time, I can't help but to wonder. And if you think that I’m being overdramatic, I have to respectfully disagree.  There are crazy, overzealously ambitious drivers who are not afraid to slide between me and another car at a moment's notice.  And sometimes you feel very lucky.  Someone might actually show a sliver of what you would consider good will and slow down so that you can merge, but then they suddenly zoom ahead, outrageously laughing that they pulled one over on the anxious slow girl who is now behind them, her heart in her throat, her hands unbearably shaking as she replays what she should have done and all of those what could have been scenarios. And another thing, how much trust should we really put on traffic lights anyway?  What happens if a light suddenly goes out or what if they all land on green?    What would happen then? To put my driving anxiety in perspective here’s a bit of background information about my journey to drive.  You may think that something terrible must have happened for me to have this much anxiety about what essentially the majority of people in the Unites States are forced to do every day, like I was in some sort of death defying car accident when I was younger where I flew across four lanes of traffic and barely made it out alive.  This wasn't at all the case for me.  I’ve only ever been in two accidents and they were very minor as far as accidents go, so I don’t think it's a buried trauma.  I got my license at 17.  I waited that extra year because for one I was scared, two I didn’t have a car, and three I don’t think my parents really wanted to teach me.  My mother flat out refused, saying that her nerves simply could not handle it and she was the teacher in the family.  Thus, the responsibility fell upon my father, the non teacher.  Now my dad is not a great driver himself and I am not one to allow common sense to shape what I should or should not do, especially during my teenage years.  For example, on one of our practice drives my dad told me to turn left out of a Walmart parking lot, and I did, I did indeed turn left, which put me directly into oncoming traffic.  He failed to mention that I needed to cross to the median.  But should he have really had to explain such a thing to me in the first place?  I do have eyes and a brain, both of which should have been watching the flow of traffic, but alas, that was not the case. You may be surprised that I passed my driver’s test on the first try, although it was just barely.  My driving examiner was almost too large to fit into my tiny forest green Buick Skylark.  His side stomach rubbed against my arm throughout the entirety of the drive.  He demanded immediate air conditioning as soon as he waddled his way into my car and struggled to get the seat belt over his protruding stomach.  I almost felt like he blamed me for the size of my car, the lack of air conditioning, and his too large gut.  I was shaking of course and sweating, which is a weird combination of physicalities to happen all at once.  By the time we reached the parallel parking portion of the test, I could tell he was already over it and to be honest, so was I.  He gave me about a minute to fail miserably before grunting a few times and then pointing a pudgy finger at the front windshield as he told me to just go ahead already because obviously I wasn’t getting it. But he did pass me nonetheless, maybe just so that he wouldn’t have to see me and my small car again. Now fast forward to today where I live in a new city.  A city that used to be quite small, but is growing.  It’s growing so fast that right now it’s the 18th fastest-growing metro area in the United Sates, attracting daily approximately 36 new residents.  The two lane highway that was here when I first moved has changed to three lanes and probably needs to change again. Here is a few pictures to show you what I mean, although they do not do it justice to how gridlocked everything can become on the daily. I’m not aggressive or confident enough to battle this everyday.  That’s the one thing that my driving examiner told the 17 year old version Elizabeth.  You aren’t confident, but that will come with practice.  I’m 44 now and am still not confident and no amount of practice has boosted that driving confidence I'm afraid.  I often wonder where I can buy this confidence because it’s not just in my driving that I lack it, but so many other things as well.  I look at people and wonder how they became confident in the first place and if they can give me just a small amount of what they have.  I don’t really think that’s how confidence works, although I wish it did because then I would probably be better at so many things. Maybe that confidance will eventually come my way. Maybe there is in fact a magic number in age where everything will click for me. I have always liked to take my own time in most things, why should gaining confidence be any different? But for now, every morning I grip that steering wheel, tightly mutter and then pray for the other drivers to not hit me, and brave highway 49.  When I reach my destination I’m always amazed that I made it all in one piece, without a scratch on my car or person.  Someone must be smiling down on me or maybe I’ve just built up a lifetime of good  karma, whatever it is I am thankful.

Is there anything  better than a staycation, but the kind that’s a little further from home?  You’re far  enough away where you won't run the risk of seeing anyone you know so  you have all the license that you need to dress in a different way, maybe bolder, maybe sluttier, maybe  more conservative, whatever floats your boat, but you can be different for a while and who doesn’t love that kind of freedom? One of my favorite places to travel that is not too far or too close, but just right as Goldilocks would say, is Tulsa, Oklahoma and as luck would have it we chose a weekend that coincided with their first Friday Art Walk or as they call it crawl. If you haven’t been to a Tulsa's first Friday Art Crawl I would highly recommend it.  It’s surprisingly well populated with not only vendors and street performers, but patrons as well.  It was first established in 2007 to drive consumers to the ever growing Tulsa Arts District.  What started out as 50 to 100 people visiting four to six venues has now grown to well over 3,000 art enthusiasts visiting every month.   Small to large galleries stay open, many well past their closing hours, to allow customers to peruse the local art scene. One of my favorite galleries is called the Living Arts of Tulsa Gallery which features contemporary art and we had to of course stop there first.  We have actually bought art from them before as pictured below. They’re weird, they’re strange, they’re deliciously me. This particularly weekend two exhibits were being showcased.  The first one is entitled the STATE OF THE UNION where artist Val Esparza explores America’s divisiveness by using the flag as a symbolic object.  The stars are twisted, the stripes tangled in both two and three dimensional formats. The second exhibit is entitled DINKUM HOKUM where artist Austin Gober plays with the idea of shifting perspectives to represent the unusual.  I enjoyed this exhibit a bit more than the first. Probably why I took pictures of some of the pieces, for it did embrace the strange, although some of the art was simpler than what you might expect, something that I think Gober did on purpose.  Taking what you know, the familiarity of it, and turning it into the absurd. Like the first picture is a scene from a normal enough looking living room, but it is set strangely with naked manequins and furniture that has been knocked over. My husband liked the second picture the most from this gallery so I had to include it as well. Sorry for my less than stellor pholtography skills. I had noticed a sign when first entering the gallery that said something about taking pictures, but I couldn't tell if it was for or against it, so I kind of panicked, not wanting to get into trouble, and tried to be sneaky. I'm sure I was not near as stealhy as I thought myself to be, although no one said a word to me. Both exhibits run through October 11. The 108 Contemporary Gallery was next and their current exhibit is entitled STILL which showcases the works of  Lissa Hunter, Jane Sauer, Jo Stealey, and Carol Stein.  These artists have actually been friends for decades, and to maintain their friendship duing the COVID pandemic they met virtually.  As luck would have it inspiration struck during these virtual conversations.  The exhibit explores the still life through their different eyes, different perspectives, over time. “Out of stillness comes observation. Out of observation comes awareness. Out of awareness comes our work.” ( https://108contemporary.org/event/still/ ) I enjoyed the different takes on recognizing a life in stillness. From recreated objects, to paintings, to textiles.   The exhibit will run through September 20. Then we stumbled into the Tac Gallery, one I hadn't been to before. The exhibit that is  currently on display is entitled THE PROFESSIONAL AND OTHER WORKS.  Artist Chrisa Dené Jacobs has painted a series of portraits inspired by her father.  I enjoyed how the drawn lines seem so haphazard and free.  Individually they might not make much sense, but together they tell a story of a person.  Eyes that are weary, eyes that are lustful, eyes that have seen pain.   The exhibit will run through September 27. In the middle of all the vendors and galleries is a large open field with a stage where different dance crews were showcasing their improvised dance skills.  I loved the excitement that the dancers and crowd exhibited with one another, as well as the comradery shown between each dance crew. It was nice to see friendly slaps on the back, shared laughs and nods amidst a world that sometimes feels too hard, too heavy. Walking around the different vendors, observing all of this art made me wonder what it would have been like if I had taken the artist pathway.  I’m not a talented painter or sketcher or crafter or builder, so I probably wouldn’t have ended up at an art walk or crawl, but I do love to write, and I have always loved to act so maybe a street performer would have been more my thing.  Would I have been happier, I sometimes wonder, if I had pursued something in the arts even if I wasn't well recieved by the masses?  Which would be no real big surprise for me, having never been one for popularity.  Always towing the line of mediocrity except for the fourth grade.  I know, random, but that was a year I remember my confidence really soaring.  I don’t know why it was that year specifically and why the following years I reverted into myself like a turtle seeking its safe little shell.   Are all children born into confidence, I sometimes wonder?  Confident in who they are without feeling the need to play that neverending, never satisfying comparison game.  Is that taught behavior, the never feeling good enough or was a bully to blame for all of my insecurities, although my bullies so often wore sheep’s clothing.  Church friends who delighted in laughing at my expense or maybe I was just too sensitive and where does that come from?  The overly exhausting sensitivity where even the slightest head tilt if done too fast, too sharp can make you tear up knowing that you are the brunt of someone else's joke again.  A joke that you always had trouble understanding in the first place, which only made the bully laugh that much harder. But I have grown since then, thank God for that. And with all of that growth I have realized that I don't care so much about what people think or say about me or at least not as much as I once did, but maybe I would have come to this realization sooner if I had followed my inital passions because artists so often revel in embracing their authenticity instead of running from it.  They might go home at night, sad that someone didn’t buy their painting or maybe hurt that some idiot commented too harshly about whatever their creation was, but I choose to think that's not the case.  These artists have put themselves out into the world for better or worse and are satisfied with their choice, for really they couldn’t have ever envisioned another life for themselves.  And maybe that is the real reason art walks are a thing today.  To be around such authentic souls is refreshing in a world of social media, where everyone tries to pretend that their shit isn’t near as bad as we all know it to be. Art walks  emerged in the late 20th century, but primarily in those big coastal cities, New York, L.A.  Middle America eventually began participating in the early 2000s.  It has grown substantially since then because art is important for what it gives us.  A peak into something that makes us think a certain way, a different way.  Or maybe it allows us to go back in time for a moment to when life was happier or sadder,  and the feelings that are elicited are genuinely authentic to us.  Art walks  allow us to see and maybe even talk to the artists who live so close to us and to respect them for who they are, the ones who have dared to dream a life so much bigger than most, but maybe I’m over romanticizing the whole idea, which I’m kind of prone to do most days.  Whatever these thoughts are, I hope it inspires you to go to your town’s art walk, usually held on the first Friday of the month, buy something locally crafted and every time you wear or see it, think of the time that was spent creating such a piece.  Bits of someone’s soul went into making that art for you and isn’t that truly an extraordinary thing.

Sometime I forget that my family members share my genetic makeup.  Like they very well may have the same anxieties, fear of disappointing others, constant need to apologize, the ability to get lost in every place and situation, and to make most situations as uncomfortable as possible, and I could go on, but I’m working on my self esteem so I will leave it there.  But all of these shared idiosyncracies possibly look different in another person. A kaleidoscope of mismatched psychosis, shaken up and spit out in different formulas with bit of life experience thrown in for good measure. I didn’t really think about all of this of course as I prepared myself to be embraced by family over the last weekend. All I felt was an anxiety that caused heart palpitations, sweating, and a fear that I wouldn’t know what to say, or if I did say something it would be a vomit of inconsequential words, haphazardly formed, haphazardly spewed.  And that happens to me when I'm nervous. Like the time I met David Sedaris, the famous humorous writer, and as he was signing a copy of one of his books for me, he gave me a sweet compliment. "I like your shirt," he said. I could have smiled and politely thanked him for the compliment, but I didn't. Before my brain could catch up to my mouth I was telling him that the shirt was rented.  Confusion etched itself across his face as he looked me up and down. Can this girl not afford to buy her own clothes? Was a question I’m sure he was thinking, but of course didn’t say and I didn't provide any further explaination, but rather asked him instead how often he writes.  His confusion turned to one of mild annoyance as he told me that he wrote every day.  Of course he would write everyday, that's his job as a WRITER.  I spend most of my life trying to not be basic and when the opportunity strikes to impress someone I admire so much, the most basic of basic questions leaves my mouth without asking my permission, the audacity!! So yes, past experience have told me that I can’t be trusted when left to my own devices.  Maybe if I had created a character before seeing Sedaris I wouldn’t get chills of embarrassment every time I think about what I said and his face when I said it.  Cool chic writer girl would only have ever said very cool chic writer like things if I had thought to create her before the book signing.  In that spirit I knew what I had to do this weekend.  I had to create a character to ensure that I would maintain a calm, be attractively collected, and very very poised.  Thus, Cousin Courtney was born.  Cousin Courtney is a lot like the person who I have always wanted to be.  She says what she feels when she actually feels it.  She’s not afraid to express herself even if it’s too bold, too flamboyant, too much for the occasion.  Cousin Courney doesn’t give two fucks because Cousin Courtney is herself first, and a people pleaser last.  The irony is not lost on me that I have to be a personality somewhat removed from my own to be confident in myself, something that Cousin Courtney would never do. To get into this new character I promptly got my nails done a bright red.   I picked all the dramatically black outfits to wear for such an occasion, took a few deep breaths and was finally ready to embark on what I could only assume was going to be a very heavy weekend, but not awkward, never awkward because Cousin Courtney simply doesn’t do awkward. I was wrong of course.  The Cousin Courtney character lasted for about two point five seconds.  Probably about the time I saw my dad, saw his fluster, heard him say the first thing that must have popped into his mind because it was disjointed from the conversation at hand and then he proceeded to apologize when everyone showed up an hour late because he must have told them the wrong time, which I don’t think that he did, but he, like me, always assumes that if there’s a wrong doing it’s probably his fault. My dad and his brothers. From left to right: John, Edward, Dad, Mike I’ve never hugged so hard, not a Cousin Courtney thing for she’s never one for warmth, but I think that’s what grief does. It wraps you in a darkness so intense that family is the only ones that can pull you out of it and a hug is what you need to feel that you really aren’t alone with your tears because they are validated for what they are, an intense pain leaving your body, washing away everything that you feel to leave you cleaner, brighter on the other side. My grandfather’s death was expected, but I found that I was crying not so much for his passing because I do believe that he was ready, but rather for the passing of my childhood.  I looked around at all of my cousins, now all grown up, most with grown children, and I could still picture us gathered around the kid’s table at Thanksgiving and laughing as we joked about the adults, about the food, about each other.  I bought my first album, The Eagles Greatest Hits, because I overheard my two cousins Amara and Adrianne talking about how great the Eagles were.  My cousin Amanda and I always seemed to do the same things, at the same time, although we only ever saw one another once a year and even now, she’s trying to learn Spanish, taking the same level in Duolingo, gets to talk to Lily and express how much me gusta el pan, and I am doing that very same thing now although we haven't talked in over 10 years. Here are Amara, Amanda, and Adrienne at dinner the night before the funeral.  We shut the place down but could have continued talking for a few hours more. From left to right: Amara, Amanda, Me, Adrianne I felt lighter on the drive home after my grandfather was buried, goodbyes were said and promises were made to make more of an effort to stay in touch because that’s important.  Family's important for nothing else but to make you feel that you aren’t really alone in the world.  Your personality, your idiosyncrasies are shared with others and that should mean something.  It’s the family events that are the one place where I shouldn't have to create a character because they should know the real me.  As much as I think sometimes that I’m not seen, not heard, I realized this weekend that there is family that sees me, hears me, and I didn’t need Cousin Courtney to feel comfortable after all.  So often though it’s a feeling of judgement that beats me down with its screams that I’m not enough, will never be enough, but if there is that judgment hidden somewhere dark and secluded, like judgement is so prone to lurk, is that a something that I can really help?   If others judge me, even if it is family, isn’t that on them?  Writing this now I feel more attuned to the Cousin Courtney character for wouldn’t she be saying something so similar right now if given the opportunity, which makes me wonder about my created characters. Are they just different versions of me? I suspect that they are. Why pigeon hole myself into what I think I should be or feel or do?  I’m multi faceted and aren’t we all in one way or another. I don’t know if I will ever completely understand the person who I am, although I’m hopeful that I will one day, maybe when I’m 94, like my grandfather, and maybe I will be lucky enough to have someone, anyone, tell me that they do see me, they do know me, they do hear me and best of all they do accept me for all of my characters, Cousin Courtney included.  James Ragain, husband, father, grandfather (1931-2025)

I once worked with a teacher who was the walking definition of an oxymoron.  When I met her she was vegan, would talk about it in detail, although getting to the point felt like participating in a one sided game of checkers with her.  When food was offered she never said the simple no thank you, she put on a show.  Her eyes would slide from left to right as she looked at the particular food item, one finger poised to pick up whatever it was, an eyebrow raised, “Does this have cheese in it, eggs, meat,” she would ask, her nose wrinkling.  She was soon given the answer that she had to have expected. Yes, the food has all of those things and probably other ingredients, many of which even the most sound linguistic would have trouble pronouncing.  We worked in public education after all, in middle America.  Vegan options were never a thing.  If there was a salad, which was a rare sighting, it was mostly cheese and predressed, each lettuce leaf dripping with some kind of white goo.  Inevitably someone would ask her the question that I suspected she had been waiting to hear, “Are you on a particular diet?”  “Why, yes I am,” she would then say and I could hear the gloat behind every syllable.  “I’m vegan.” “I don’t see how you do it,” one teacher replied with a shake of her head.  “I just could never have that much discipline,” someone else added.  I could see her rise a bit higher, her chin titled upwards as she smiled with satisfaction because  yes she had the self control that we all envied. She then went on to describe the many recipes that she had tried, how amazing she felt.  She was actually down five pounds and had boundless amounts of energy.  But the next year she had changed.  I watched, confused, as she shoveled cheese and meat sticks into her mouth at our first teacher’s meeting.  What was happening? I thought, but didn’t dare to ask, and neither, apparently, did anyone else.  But I was curious so I watched as she was presented with food. “Does this have cheese, dairy, or meat?”  She asked.  How can this be? I thought.  Last year she was asking the opposite.  She couldn’t stand the thought of eating a single animal product.  Oh, how times have changed, I thought next.   There was another awkward pause before someone dared to ask, “Are you on some sort of special diet” to which she replied with another proud smile, “Yes, I’m keto.”  “I don’t see how you do it,” one teacher said.  “I just could never have that much discipline,” someone else added.  And again I could see her rise a bit higher, her chin tilted upwards as she smiled with satisfaction because yes she had the self control that we should all envy.  She then went on to describe the many recipes that she had tried, how amazing she felt.  She was actually down five pounds and had boundless amounts of energy. I soon came to the realization that this particular person may just be starving for attention and saying something shocking, something that most people could never do, would make them admired in others’ eyes. This same teacher taught English, but bragged about how much she hated to read, which I never quite understood.  How does that even happen?  Or was she just trying to be shocking, once again. She is not the only one with this type of oxymoronic behavior.  There are others, myself even.  It’s almost like we all have a certain version of ourselves outlined for others to look at and enjoy, but when it comes down to it, that’s not who we really are, and maybe for some of us, or most of us, we will never know who that person is.  For so long we have been living with this idealistic version of ourselves, the authentic one buried somewhere too deep to be discovered.  I don’t know whatever happened to the vegan turned keto lover.  She left the school soon after, moved somewhere far away I heard.  Hopefully, she’s not teaching English anymore.  The last thing that we need is someone who hates to read teaching our youth the importance of it.  I do wonder what her new diet regimen is, although I suspect, knowing what I know about her, that she is on some type of GLP 1.  But I’m sure when food is offered, she will still evaluate it with a critical eye before pushing it to the side because she is just too full to eat a single bite.  She probably will wait for a bit, hoping that someone notices her lack of appetite and finally asks her, “Are you on some sort of special diet?” And that is the only segway that she will need to tell them all about the weightloss drug and how she feels amazing, she’s actually down five pounds and has boundless amounts of energy.

My grandfather died this week.  It was expected and as far as death and dying go he had a seamless one.  My dad spent every night with him up until the end, even when he went into hospice’s care and he just peacefully went away in his sleep.  I sometimes wish I had been a bit closer to him growing up, but I was one grandchild of what often felt like a billion and I wasn’t that exceptional anyway.  I wasn’t the doctor, or the CEO, or the funniest or the saddest, or first or the last grandchild.  I was and still am very very average.     Even though it was expected it still hit me harder than I thought that it would.  You go a lot of your life trying to pretend that death will never exist for someone like you and then it hits you that everyone’s end is inevitably the same.  One day you simply will cease to exist altogether and then what?  There are different theories of course.  Humans are bundles of energy and that energy once our bodies have given up on us has to go somewhere, but where that is will always be a mystery for the living. While others, like most of my family believe that you are whisked away to heaven and all of those years of believing will finally pay off in a mansion in the sky. Whatever actually does happen is scary to think about or at least it is for me. I have a hard enough time doing new things by myself and dying is the ultimate one of those things. Life stops when there’s a death and then there's a domino effect of things that you have to do. There's the visitation, funeral, burial, and family lots and lots of family that will need to be talked to, smiled at, and engaged with.  It’s all so very exhausting, overwhelming and my anxious heart just wants to bury herself into mounds and mounds of pillows in a room somewhere dark and secluded.  But I know I can’t do that; I mean I can, but it’s not very healthy to wallow, so I decided that staying busy was the next best thing.   I was invited to a concert on Monday night, G was out of town, but the invite still stood for just me, so I went.  Sometimes it’s so tiring being in charge of me, and I really don’t know how I did it for so long, but I decided I would embark on that challenge even though I didn’t know anything about the bands that were playing, but this was a new character opportunity:   metal punk rock girlie.  My friend Kim had box seats, which was a new experience for me and it came with euphoric bougie feelings that I was completely there for.  I got to stare down at the other concert goers, sweaty, standing in each other’s space and I felt like royalty for a moment, so maybe I’m now princess metal punk rock girlie.  The bands, much to my delight were less metal and more punkish.  The first to take the stage was THE FUNERAL PORTRAIT.  High energy, gender fluid, and entertaining. Then, DAYSEEKER.  They performed in the dark but still had a ton of energy and I was entertained, and isn’t that the whole point? The headliner, ICE NINE KILLS reminded me a lot of the Rob Zombie and Alice Cooper concert I went to last year.  Each song was inspired by a horror movie which involved props on stage, as well as actors.  I was there for all of it.  My little geeky theatre heart rejoiced at such attention to character detail.  Also, the band members were really pretty and my imagination went wild with the what ifs.  What if they saw me in the crowd and wanted to meet me?  What if I quite my job and became a roadie or one of the actors that I liked so much on the stage?  How much do they make? I needed to know the answers to these questions because I'm fully ready to make a career change. This evening was just what I needed.  A little strange, a little morbid, and a little bit of horror can turn anyone’s day around. The second evening was a bit different, but was what I so desperately needed.  One of the best human beings I know came to town to go with me to the TRAIN concert. We had previously gone to one music festival years ago and still laugh about it.  We made one of those core memories that changes your brain chemistry for the better. I've seen TRAIN multiple times and even if you aren’t a huge fan of the band, their concerts are so much fun.  We danced, we sang too loudly, we laughed, we ran in circles trying to find our uber after it was all over and then we lay in bed, laughed some more, and recounted the evening in detail. Two evenings that couldn’t have been more different, but it helped me to get out of my own head, which is never a fun place to be and is something that I often have to deal with. It gave me what I needed to face the brutal world where dying is a thing, death is a thing, family obligations are a thing and I suspect I will have to create another character to get through it all, so stay tuned for that.

It’s taken me six years to get another tattoo.  Six years of pining for one, having ideas and then either forgetting about them or disregarding them as not being quite good enough.  But this summer something happened to me, something that changed my perspective in ways that I never could have predicted.  It caused me to look up the name of the artists that gave me my last tattoo and quickly send him an email about my idea. I wanted to add to Frida, give her another life, and I wanted it to cover the entirety of my arm.  I honestly didn’t think he would email me back, maybe that’s why I was so bold in saying that I wanted a full sleeve, but he did, and now the only thing for me to do was go through with the damn thing. “I would love to give you a full sleeve," he wrote back.  "Do you want to maintain the Frida theme or just a tribute to Mexico?” “Frida all the way,” I hurridly replied. I'm going to visit Frida’s house again in Mexico City, I said, I will get inspired I said next, but I trust your art, your vision.  And if you look at his portfolio you will definitely see why I have put so much trust in his artistic capabilities. It's not just how he draws with straight sure lines, it's his shading, color usage, and how he places images on the human body that brings them to life. I did go to Frida’s house this summer and loved every moment of it.  I had been years ago and knew that this was one thing that I had to do again, however, I was a bit disappointed that some of the deeply personal letters, sketchings, photographs were no longer there, but that does happen.  Another museum commissions the art, borrows from somewhere else so that other people who may not be fortunate enough to travel to Mexico City can also enjoy it for a time, and isn’t that the way it should be anyway.   But I soon found out that a separate Frida museum will be opening in the fall.  Kahlo’s parents purchased a property right next door to the Casa Azul (the blue house and where the museum is located) and then passed the property down to Frida and her sisters.  The Museo Casa Kahlo will be more focused on Frida’s life and who she was as a person.  This makes sense, I thought.  It was the deeply personal items that I fell in love with when I visited her house the last time.  Here I am sitting on her bench and standing in the middle of the courtyard that her house encircles. Her studio looks like she just stepped out for a smoke.  Wet brushes chilling next to paint that is only half full. I didn’t immediately email the tattoo artist my inspirations.  I didn’t want to appear overeager so I waited.  I waited for about a month out from my appointment. I like that things are never what they seem with Frida.  You may look at her flowy bohemian dresses and think, wow what a trailblazer of the time, but she had to wear what she did, more for her own comfort then to be a blazing fashion icon.  She had polio as a small child which caused one of her legs to be shorter than the other.  And then, if that wasn’t bad enough, when she was a teenager she was in an almost fatal bus accident where a iron handrail went through her abdomen and uterus, which caused infertility, something that I don’t think she ever got over,  and chronic pain because of the fractures sustained in her spine, collarbone, ribs, pelvis, and right leg. She often worked lying down, an easel strapped to her neck or her chest. In the museum there's a seperate room where some of her clothes are on display. You can see them in their deconstructed form, along with a drawing that Frida did of how she felt inside wearing such beautiful garments.  When the day of my tattoo came, I was nervous of course.  I talked a big game.  I’m going to be full sleeve tatted girl character.  A bad ass in my own mind; someone like Frida Kahlo had to have been, someone that shouldn’t be messed with. But, what if I changed characters? The sneaky thought played sommersaults in my mind.  What would I do then? I didn’t cancel my appointment.  I sucked all of that anxiety about what my future self would think of the present one and showed up still nervous, still shaking, and awkward as hell. The tattoo studio or do they say parlor? Is Black Cobra in Little Rock, Arkansas. Matt O’Baugh is who did my Frida Kahlo as a catrina and who I can’t see anyone continuing to tattoo this arm especially.  I was so impressed with his first work and I still get comments on how cool the design and execution are, even getting stopped in Mexico by a tattoo artist who couldn’t quite staring at it. Matt presented me with the design.  I was a little shook to be honest, didn’t know how to react.  He said that we wouldn’t complete the entire sleeve today, but would start it.  I don’t know what I was expecting, but honestly it wasn’t that, it was better.  Once he placed the stencil underneath my arm and on the back of it, I began to get excited. I do remember emailing him that I wanted to stay away from the elbow and pit area.  Well Matt like the honey badger didn’t give two fucks about my pain level and I’m really glad he didn’t.  The pit didn’t hurt near as much as the elbow. I sat in his chair for six ½ hours and have never felt so much continuous pain in all of my life.  It felt like he was taking a burning knife and chiseling out my skin.  It felt like he was taking Shylock’s pound of flesh to feed to Hannibal Lector. I felt the need to talk to Matt.  Say things like, I really wish the book I brought was better or do you know who David Goggins is or this is my 20th year in education, where does the time go.  To be honest, I get annoyed with mindless chitchatters and half the time I don’t want to listen to them, engage with them.  Matt, on the other hand, was drawing art onto my skin, some of which he was freelancing with a marker first, and he still managed to give me a few nods and murmured yes’.  Why I felt the need to converse?  Nerves perhaps?  I was annoying myself after awhile and then I eventually shut up, much, I’m sure, to his relief.  I let him work, and I experienced the pain.  I found that focusing on it, wallowing in it released something in me.  I looked around at all the other fellow pain seeking tattooees and loved the fact that the placement of my tattoo was one of the most painful.  I felt powerful, which is a very rare feeling for me. We finished the first half of my sleeve and I promptly made an appointment in two weeks and then in a few days had to call the studio, I like how that sounds over parlor, and changed the appointment for November.  All of this caused two points of anxiety in me. First, that I will be judged by my family and G’s.  Looked upon with sad eyes and gaping mouths and whispered statements of why I would do such a thing to my poor left arm.  I would himhaw my way through an explanation that I'm sure will not be satisfactory to anyone, because I rarely can say what I feel when wanting to please the person standing in front of me.  And second, that I had to postpone my appointment.  Will Matt be upset was my first thought.  Will I disrupt his artistic flow was my second.  I know I’m the customer and his prices are a hefty hit to my bank account, but I can’t help how my brain tries to make irrational thoughts seem very very rational.  Oh, and there’s a third thing.  I want to change his original design to something else and the thought of emailing him more ideas makes my heart want to shrink to the size of a marble. I know I will follow through with my November appointment; I won’t wait another six years, I just hope from now until then my anxious mind will relax a bit although I also know that is wishful thinking.  I feel like I'm growing more anxious by the minute and maybe that’s another reason why I love getting tattoos because I relinquish creative license over myself, if that makes sense.  For that extended period of time I can't really think about anything else other than the pain of that tattoo gun burning a beautiful line into my skin and maybe that’s why they always say that tattoos can be addictive for they not only stay with you, but so does the experience for its refreshing quiet.  I will keep that in mind the next time when I feel the need to tell Matt about the breakfast I had or the misbehaving child I had to deal with or another inconsequential moment in my life because maybe he wants quiet too to think, to create.

I told myself that I wanted to accomplish one of two things on this Mexican adventure of mine.  Maybe both if I was feeling particularly daring, but I shouldn’t think too far ahead, my anxious mind, anxious heart may not be able to stand for such things.  First, I wanted to learn how to scuba dive, which I find absolutely terrifying.  I go through epps and flows of course. When everyone is sitting around talking about their past scuba diving exploits, I smile and nod along, not wanting to appear like the scaredy-cat that I most definitely am. I think part of my problem is that I have never had to save myself from a situation that could lead to my unfortunate demise and I don’t know what kind of savior I would be even if it was me that needed the saving.  Would I be the type that jumps into action, brain clear and at the ready to immediately get me out of the deadly situation or would I be the someone that freezes, panics with open eyes, saliva dripping down my chin frantically looking to someone, anyone to save me, but also being too embarrassed to admit my screw up because, people pleaser here? G did take me to a scuba diving shop and I stood there awkwardly and waited while they discussed the logistics.  He dazzled them with his abundant knowledge already, him having been a dive master or maybe he still is, I don’t know how all that works, and me standing there, nervously gnawing at my just done nails as I replay all of the potential terrifying what if scenarios.  I have a pretty good imagination so I can take myself through a situation and actually feel like I’m living within it.  Needless to say, I was panicking and found myself inching towards the exit door, praying that maybe G will forget that I had ever expressed any interest in doing such a thing to begin with and this made me think. Do I really just like the awe in the other person’s eyes when I say I want to get scuba certified? Like I belong to a community of dare devils, thrill seekers, people that I have always found to be so much cooler than me. Do I just like this new character? Someone more interesting who I can escape behind. Second, I wanted to take Spanish classes.  This option doesn’t give me near as much anxiety as the first and I find that it is also a much more necessary one.  I have been married to a Mexican for six years now and sadly my Spanish is still quite limited.  My 20 minutes, well if I’m being honest with myself 10 minute, Duolingo lesson every other day really not cutting it.  And my old brain and lazy tongue, someone told me that some people have this, I don’t know who per se did the telling, but it was a someone and I couldn't have related more.  Even if I know the Spanish word I find it difficult to wrap my tongue around all of those syllables and unusual sounds. As luck would have it there was a Spanish school just down the road from our apartment.  I did check on two other schools and this one proved cheaper for the amount of time and consideration I would be getting from my tutor. They had two options: immersive or semi immersive.  I chose the immersive option for at least the first week.  I knew that I would be with other people and it would last from 9 to 1 every day.  I thought it was a real steal. Two hundred and nine American dollars for four hours of Spanish for the week. If I was by myself it would be the same price for three hours. I showed up a bit nervous, not really knowing what to expect, but we went to the store the day before and I purchased a notebook just for the class.  I actually felt like this was a first day of school moment.  Should I take a picture to commemorate such an occasion? I briefly thought .  I didn’t if you were wondering. Fortunately for me there was only one other girl in the class and she was from Germany.  An interesting side note: Germany has a program where each year whoever you work for has to grant you five professional growth days where you can take a class or travel somewhere to improve upon your professional life.  She decided to take Spanish classes in Mexico.  She already spoke perfect English, German of course, Chinese, and wanted to one day move to Spain so Spanish was her next language of choice.  I was expecting her to be way better than I me, but we pretty much were both on the struggle bus.  One reason I like this school is that they try to pair you with another student(s) that are on the same level as you are. I had to complete a brief quiz before the first day of class to see where I was at. I found that I knew more nouns than she did, especially when food was concerned.  Of course, that shouldn’t be a huge surprise.  Seventy five percent of the time G’s family is discussing food: which tacos are better, which restaurant should we go to, you get the idea. This was the first room I came upon once I entered the school. And this was the classroom. Our instructor’s name was Antonio. I was a bit nervous to ask to take his picture for my viewerless blog, so I secretly shot this. I did eventually ask if it was ok and was given the green light. The first day wasn’t as bad as I thought it could have been.  My brain felt sharp, ready to embark on this challenging adventure.  We broke for a break around 11, thank goodness for that, although I got the feeling that the German would have rather gone the whole four hours break free.  No thank you.  My sharp brain was dulling at a surprising rate. Antonio was very encouraging and the German and I struggled.  Some days being more successful than others.  I signed up for a second week, this time only three hours and by myself with Antonio, and next week will be a third one.  I know that I’m getting better; I really do know that, but it’s like my brain and my mouth have lost all communication with one another. I think a real low point was when I went to G’s family’s house over the weekend.  My new found knowledge buzzing in the empty spaces of my brain and it took all family members, including Ciara, the maid, who cannot read and has limited writing abilities, to help me say one word and to this day I don’t think I can really say it after all of that practicing. On our last day we had an unfortunate encounter with probably the largest cockroach I have ever seen. The German was adamant that we should not crush it but just spray the shit out of it. I was confused as to the why, but I'm sure there was a scientific reason. Maybe? This did force us to spend the rest of the afternoon outside because of all that spraying and i.e. fumes. Look how cute the outdoor area is; I wasn't mad about the extra time spent there. We also had a visitor and I took it as a sign that I made the right decision in continuing my Spanish classes for the next two weeks. Just so you know Iguana's are my spirit animal. They love the sun, fruit, and have a rough exterior, so they maintain their introvertness, strange people free. We then spent the rest of the afternoon at this free art museum where the German and I tried to only speak in Spanish and Antonio tried to interpret what we were trying to say. I did find it amusing that the German insisted that we only speak in Spanish upon entering the museum. That lasted about 2.5 seconds. Antonio is a great teacher.  I can tell he feels bad that I’m not quite grasping onto the concepts as quickly as his other students, but I’m nothing if not diligent.  I can persevere with the best of them and maybe one day you will see me conversing in Spanish like a true Mexican; I really hope that you do, but for now you may see me instead trying to frantically Google how to get rid of my lazy tongue although I should probably specify it is only for linguistic purposes or who knows what images may pop up.

Fun fact. Before you can legally get married in Mexico you have to submit blood test results, which includes an STD test (I tested negative for everything, not that I was too worried, but my anxious brain will invent things like once I heard you can get chlamydia from a toilet seat, and what if that has happened to me, how embarrassing), blood type (I’m O+, never knew that), and if I’m related to my husband in the United States and soon to be husband in Mexico (I’m not by the by, which makes sense being as he’s Mexican and I am very very white like when I did an ancestry test my people never made it past Scotland). You can get these blood tests done at any of these laboratories in Mexico and it costs about 750 pesos for the both of us or around 40 dollars depending on how the peso is doing. If you ever want to get anything tested: hormone levels, cholesterol, etc. pop into one of these labs and you will have your results mid day. Ours was ready around 11:30, we got there right when they opened at 7AM. I know I’m a baby, but in my defense she said I had skinny veins and that made me happy, maybe because she used the word skinny. Then we went back to the hotel for G to work and I to force an exploration adventure although I would have rather stayed in the hotel. I fought the urge to find the nearest Starbucks, something familiar, after a morning of strange things, but I didn’t want to be that girl so I found this cute little cafe after walking aimlessly around in a huge circle and sweating profusely. Literally that cafe Americano was the size of my head. I tried to order in Spanish; I tried to talk to my waitress in Spanish, but she looked at me a few times and then just switched to English like it’s the easiest thing in the world and maybe for her it is, but for me it’s going to be a life long battle? Or should I say challenge? Challenge probably sounds better. Once our results were ready we delivered them to where we will be getting married on Thursday. Yes it is literally a hole in the wall and yes I am very excited to get married in said hole in a literal wall. Overall I did several things out of my comfort zone, one even without my Mexican husband who usually leads the way and I trip along with the occasional stumble or fall or a healthy mixture of both of those things as I go. Cheers to discovering new things and we will see what tomorrow holds.

I originally did get married in Mexico for those of you who were at the wedding and are a bit confused as to why I am doing it again, however, we had a symbolic ceremony. Don’t worry when we got back to the states we filed all of the necessary paperwork and were officially married in the U.S. Our wedding was beautiful and I woulnd’t do anything to change it although the thought of everyone staring at me and having to be the center of attention had me running to my doctor to get on a good antidepressant to handle my anxious nerves. I like the idea of being the main character, but honestly I think I have more side character energy unless I can pretend that I’m a different person for awhile, which I do sometimes, than I can be that main character all day long. I don’t know why we didn’t officially get married in Mexico the first time when we had the chance. Maybe laziness on our part? It was such a whirlwind that I don’t even really remember it being a viable option. But now fast forward to six years…we decided to invest in some properties. Here is the one under construction in Puerto Morelos, should be done next year. However, if something happened to G, I would not be able to own the properties because I’m not a Mexican citizen. Here in lies the glaring problem, one in which I hadn’t even thought about and probably would never have, if it had not been for my husband, who is always five steps ahead of me. Unfortunately, the Mexican government has to recognize our marriage for at least three years before I can even apply for citizenship, which isn’t a terrible thing for me since one of the requirements is to prove a conversational level of Spanish, amongst a rather lengthy list of documents that I will need to gather, and many forms that will need to be filled out, as well as a questionnaire that I will have to take about Mexican history and culture. The whole process can take four to six months although you don’t have to leave Mexico during the meantime. Fortunately, I can receive my temporary residency right away by providing proof of marriage and proof that my Mexican spouse can financially support me in Mexico. Ha ha. G has some work to do because I require a lot. But I still can’t do that right now because to be a resident I have to live in Mexico for six months and one day. Once we are married and we maintain residency here I can receive a one year temporary residency, renew it for the second year, and then apply for permanent residency (which never expires) or my Mexican citizenship. That’s a lot of stuff and things and I’m exhausted just writing and thinking about it. There are of course benefits to becoming a Mexican citizen, like there are for most countries I presume, not just because I think it’s so cool to be a dual citizen. I can purchase property, have the right to vote, enjoy reduced waiting times in Mexican airports (you think that’s not a big deal until you’re in the Cancun airport at Christmas time), I can even work for any employer in Mexico, and the list continues, but those are the ones that mostly apply to me and my situation. So, Thursday I will be officially married in Mexico and one day will call myself a Mexican, which will be fun to confuse people. Don’t ask me how my Spanish is coming along though; I will try to answer in Spanish and by the time I figure it out you will have forgotten what you asked me, not that you would be able to understand my horrendous accent anyway.

Did I forget how to ride a bicycle? The short answer is yes and I’m embarrassed to say it hasn’t been the first time. In college I went to London and my group decided that we should bike inside and outside of the city. Hell yes, I thought, I’m in. How fun. An adventure awaits. At the time I wasn’t even anxious; maybe my anxiety has grown the older I have become and why is that? Shouldn’t age provide you with a sense of grounding maturity that you can figure out life, especially the things that you were taught, I don’t know, in grade school? But I digress. The point is I did forget how to ride a bike, twice now. I still shudder with embarrassment thinking of all the car honks and yelled profanity as I wobbled my way through downtown London, almost running into many a pedestrian. So, imagine my trepidation when G suggested that I try out his mother’s bicycle. I have been adamant that if I want to live in Mexico and stay in one piece it would be better for me and all of the people in the Mayan Riviera that I do not drive a motorized vehicle and walking can be quite hot, especially in the summer months and especially if I want to get groceries and such, so that leaves biking as my only viable form of transportation. I didn’t even entertain the scooter, or better yet the motorcycle idea G threw my way. So, here’s the bike in question. It looks so innocent doesn’t it, in its shade of pink, but do you notice there are no brakes on the handlebars. It’s the kind of bike that requires you to push backwards on the peddles, something that even my childhood bike did not have. Let it be noted, I did not want to do this. I was already having one of those low self esteem days, the kind that leaves you grumpy, annoyed, and very short tempered and now G wanted me to just try, that’s what he kept on telling me. But I don’t want to, I wanted to pout like a petulant child and wallow in my self doubt instead. But alas, G won. The next several pictures will show you my journey, albeit a frustrating one, in the short 10 minutes this took. Yes, my heart was beating quite fast at how embarrassing it was that a 43 year old grown ass woman could not ride a bicycle and yes my hands were shaking. My anxiety, I’m afraid to say, was at an all time high. I want you to notice two things here. The man that was casually eating lunch while I struggled in the first picture. I’m glad I could be his lunchtime entertainment. And in the second one you can barely see the legs of another cyclist speeding past me. This guy was at least in his 60s and whistling like he had never done something as easy as biking to work before. Meanwhile I wobbled along side him, sweating and grunting, red faced, a humiliated version of myself. I included both of pictures again, but blown up this time so you can see what I mean. I eventually did get the hang of it. I don’t know if I’ll be zipping along the streets of Playa del Carmen anytime soon, but I did prove that I can in fact ride a bicycle and I learned a great deal faster then the very first time, didn’t I dad?

I’ve wanted to swim in open water for awhile now. I remember telling G, his father, my father, his mother, my mother, even his cousins, basically whoever would listen to me that I took an adult swimming class once and how it was amazing, although I'm pretty sure I only went to like four of the classes, but that's our little secret . To my credit I took the classes in the dead of winter and the pool was not heated, although it was indoors. Of course, the more wine I drank the more adamant I became about how much I learned from said classes (all four of them), even when the conversation had moved on to other better topics, like what city in Mexico has the best tacos, the consensus is Mexico City although I’m sure it’s divided in some circles, I would circle back to my swimming skills. How to be efficient in the water is less about your arms and legs, I would say, an excited flush forming on my cheeks. It’s more about the tilt of your torso. Look at the dolphins and how they swim, I would continue, ignoring the glaze that had already formed over the person who, unfortunately for them, made the mistake of speaking to me in English once, signaling their forced best friendship status. I ignored the glazed over look, the side eye that was signaling someone, anyone to please carry this chatty girl away and take her swimming knowledge with her, please. Yesterday, I once again found myself regurgitating past swimming stories. After a glass or two of wine I heard myself promise the room that I was going to swim in the ocean tomorrow. I can do it, I said. Will be so fun, I said next. And I did mean it at the time; I even brought my fitness swimsuit, matching blue cap and goggles from home, to prove how serious I was. The thing about me is I so often like the idea of something; I romanticize it in such a way that I really do want to do the thing, whatever it may be. I think at the time, this is me now; I’m that fit swimmer girl, what a cool, athletic, adventurous person I am. The morning soon came around, the wine that had been buzzing through my system with its confident promises had long since vanished and left in its wake the promise that I had made. My anxiety went into overdrive after that. What if I step on a too sharp rock, begin to bleed and get attacked by a shark? I remember being told that sting rays had been spotted in this very area; are they dangerous, worse yet lethal? What if there is someone fly fishing and I get caught in their hook? What if I get hit by a wind surfer or a kayak or worst yet a boat full of really attractive people and I’m the drowning whale that they ran into? I was, in a word, spiraling. Knowing that most of my anxious thinking has no grounds in reality, I decided to push them aside and attempted my first open water swim because I’m a woman, of course, of my word. So, with my parents-in-law watching while enjoying their morning coffee, I embarked on my hard thing for the day or maybe week, depending on how it went. I at least looked the part, right? Here was my destination. There was not a boat in sight or person for that matter, thank goodness for that much. It's all pretty shallow, even when you get past the ridge. But I couldn’t really do a lot of swimming until I made it to the rocks, instead I did a very attractive mixture of using my hands to drag my body along and walking in a crouched position but trying to look cool because…parents in law watching from the beach. I eventually did make it to the rocks. And I did start to swim and damn it if it wasn't a lot harder than I had expected it to be. I felt awkward, couldn’t breath, kept thinking that everything that I saw or touched was going to eat or sting me. I’m embarrassed to say that I may have screamed out a few times when something unfamiliar touched my arm or leg. However, I eventually did find a flow. I swam the width of the rocks four times with a goal of not stopping until I reached the other side if not for just one time and I did it. I accomplished what I set for myself on my last lap. The butterflies celebrated my success. To put it mildly I felt like I had climbed Mount Everest after I was done, but in all actuality I hadn't even swam a half mile. I was out of breath, but my endorphins told me that I did something great, if only to prove that I could do the hard thing. Here I am emerging from the ocean like the mermaid that I believe to be now (new character, dropped fit swim girl, mermaid is way cooler). Unfortunately, the pictures speak for themself. And yes, my swimming cap had somehow pulled itself off of my head. How? I will never know.

If you are friends of mine you know that I often say we run on Mexican time. You might find that term endearing, funny even, until you've invited me and my Mexican husband to dinner or to a party and we arrive a good fifteen to twenty minutes late. For the record this makes me uncomfortable and a bit fidgety, but after a few heart felt texts and a gift or two of champagne or salsa, ceviche, or even some amazing homemade guacamole, are tardiness will hopefully be forgiven. However, it wasn’t until I traveled through Mexico on a Mexican airline, that Mexican time became a real entity and not something that I just thought G made up. We arrived at the airport and unlike in America where everyone seems like they know where they’re going, walking with a confident purpose to their gate, here I noticed that there was a lot of standing around and sitting in a large open area. Many people were staring at the bright blue monitors hanging from the ceiling. G beelined it for the monitors himself and did his fair share of staring. I didn't say anything, just let him do his thing. At this point I just assume that he knows what he's doing, maybe it's foolish on my part, but I've always been a believer that if there's too many cooks in the kitchen someone will eventually get burned, so I am usually more than willing to let him take the lead. And besides all that, this is his country. I did find out that he was looking for the gate that we were flying out of, which hadn’t been assigned to us yet, even though we had already checked in, made it through security (fun fact, you don't have to take your shoes off when going through security in Mexico, but the three oz. liquid rule still applies), so the only thing to do was to wait it out. Finally, we decided we might as well eat something, because this particular airline does not serve any snacks or beverages once we got on the plane. Of course the most important part was the wine, for me at least, and I got to walk around with the plastic glass full of it, that was my favorite part and it really allowed the sharp edges of my anxiety to dull a bit. Finally, our gate was posted and we rushed to head that way to only get in a line, if this can even be called a line, I really couldn’t tell. It’s important to note here that if I was by myself, I would probably be extremely stressed out, mainly because I really didn’t know what was going on and the language barrier would only add to that, although there were surprisingly a large number of English speakers. G suddenly moved us to this much shorter line, why? I don’t know, but I followed his lead anyway. This new line did not appear much shorter than the first, but who am I to question and besides that, follower here. By this time it was already 4:00, the time when our plane was supposed to take off. The only people that seemed concerned was the English speaking family who had a connection in Mexico City to Chicago. They were adamant that there was no way that they would be able to make that flight and could they change their destination to Queretaro; the adult son was more concerned that there would not be a McDonalds in that particular airport and what would he do then? G assured him that there actually was a McDonalds in the Queretaro airport and then a sly grin appeared on his face. I knew something was up after that and I was right. He bent down to whisper that there was a Burger King and not a McDonalds in that airport. Ha ha. When I told him that for real McDonald connoisseurs, which this boy man seemed to be, this was not the same thing, he chuckled before saying, “You got to give the boy some hope right?” The family was eventually assured that yes, they would in fact make their connecting flight in Mexico City, so the boy didn't need to have worried to begin with. Their grumbled sighs and harried expressions let me know that they had little hope in the attendant's promise. Their concerns, however, were holding up the whole process of boarding for the 100 or so other people waiting behind me. I had a feeling the attendant just wanted them to go away and I don't really blame her for the crowd was crowding and the noise was noising. It was, in a word, chaos, but one that actually seemed to be an organized one. I looked around and all of the other terminals were much in the same shape. Large crowded non lines quickly forming as people waited, not really seeming that concerned with what was happening around them. There were a few angry voices raised in our own non line as people were told that we could board first since we were sitting towards the back of the plane. Front seaters, who paid more for their seats, were not too pleased with those instructions and I don't really blame them, they did pay more after all. We eventually made it onto the plane without an ID being checked although I held mine up like I thought they would question my identity and refuse my entrance. The plane took off 20 minutes after it should have; aka Mexican time. Unfortunately, the plane landed 40 minutes after the time that it was schedule. I have no idea if that family made their connecting flight to Chicago, but if they didn't, there is a McDonalds in the Mexico City airport so the boy man will be happy with that little bit of good news at least.