Why are some people destined to always fall into one embarrassing moment after another like some sort of neverending domino effect?  The moment you think you have your life in a semblance of put togetherness is when BAM, no thank you ma’am, unfortunately for you, you do not, and what you perceived as being the solid, well spoken, ahead of your game you that you hoped was your reality, was instead an imaginative conjuring because you are the type of person who volunteers to host a bridal shower, designs the invitations, sends the invitations, carefully writes down the RSVPs before making what feels like endless amounts of phone calls to reserve a room with clusters of smushed together tables that have been sitting lonely and waiting for your event to take place, but the whole time you were making a pretty big mistake that would determine the outcome of such an event if gone unnoticed.  All that complaining about why restaurants were being so difficult and how could they afford to be that way in this economy no less.  You do remember saying the correct date, you even wrote it down in your spiral notebook, circled it a few times for emphasis, but the wrong month was said as well which would make the reservation occur a year from now. Now you understand why the waiter had sounded so confused.  Why would you be making a reservation a year in advance at a sports bar?  You probably could just walk in on the same day with your party of 13 and all would be ok, but that’s not what you did, that’s not what was done.  You called, you gave the date of May 23rd, instead of August 23rd.  You scoffed when your request was met with confusion and stammers and to top it off you didn’t realize the mistake until almost a full week later.  Your befuddled brain going over and over the conversations you have had with the myriad of restaurant workers and why weren’t they calling you back to confirm said reservation.  It’s only three weeks away, you thought.  And then it hits you, sideswipes the few brain cells that you have left swimming somewhere in that cranium of yours, that the date was not only completely wrong, but wasn’t even in the same year. Then the anxiety drops sharper than ever before.  Do I really have to make another phone call?  They are all so terrifyingly embarrassing.  My stomach dropped as I searched my email sent folder and just what I had expected; the emails I sent to restaurants that I just could not stomach contacting via phone also said the same date, May 23rd and not August.  Cue the self loathing, miles and miles of it threatening to drown me in its green sludge of sayings like, “what an idiot I am,” “how can one person be this stupid,” you get the idea. Such a person should not be left to their own devices; such a person certainly should not volunteer to take a new type of yoga class, in a different country, with an instructor who she is pretty sure has seen through what she has only hoped appeared to be a shield of something.  Maybe confidence? Maybe mystery? But in all actuality, thin yoga man only saw a 40 something sweaty girl who was trying too hard to be a version of a someone that she most assuredly was not. Guided Ashtanga.  That’s what the class was called.  And the description sounded simple enough.  It’s a yoga where the breath is synchronized during a series of progressive postures.  You will improve your circulation, create a light and strong body, and a calm mind.  I ask you reader, does such a class sound hard to you? Just to let you know, all things new create an intense anxiety for me that begins in my brain and radiates to my gut.  My mouth becomes dry, my hands shake, and I will do the opposite of what is expected, but this class seemed to be more about breath work than anything else. A few glasses of wine was needed of course.  Liquid fuel.  And I was off. The class was not easy and I should have known this.  I should have known as soon as fit yoga man saw me, raised an eyebrow or two, and then quietly asked, “Have you taken Ashtanga before?” Needless to say, Ashtanga yoga is way more than simple breath work.  I twisted and turned my body further than I have ever done before and fit yoga man helped.  It wasn’t just me he helped of course, it was everyone in the class, but when I say everyone, I’m talking about petite bendy girls.  Girls who I didn’t see a drop of sweat form on their youthfully plump skin.  Not one in fact.  While my yoga mat looked like I had dredged it up from the bottom of the ocean. At the end of the 90 minute class, my back hurt and so did my arms, and my brain for that matter from just trying to not completely humiliate myself. Fit yoga man went around the room to assist the other yogis with different postures.  All of the women, except me of course, did a complete back bend, the girl sitting next to me didn’t even really need his help.  I watched her ribs poke from her stomach as her head went behind her knees and her hands quietly landed on the floor and then I quickly looked down at my own mat.  Surely he would not think I could attempt such a feat of what appeared to me to be quite otherworldly.  He had seen my performance in the class thus far and let me tell you, it was far from stellar. I thought I was home free from further humiliation, I really did, but I made the mistake of looking up, locking eyes with fit yoga man.  Damn it, I thought.  He looked at me with a dark determined eye as he motioned in my direction.   “Let’s do a headstand,” he confidently stated. Now I have attempted headstands before, using a wall as my support, but they have been half hearted at best.  It’s just not me.  I like the idea of yoga, the stretching, being zen. I love how it makes your body form positions that are challenging, yet doable, but a headstand?  I don’t think so and that’s what I told him, I don’t think so.  But he didn’t even stutter before saying right back to me, “Yup we’re doing it.” I will tell you I did that damn headstand.  It wasn’t great.  He held my long legs, which felt 10 times longer as I hoisted them over my head, praying that he would catch them and trying to not envision how I looked amongst the other yogis. A baby elephant with wobbly legs trying to stand straight, but upside down or at least that's how I saw myself.   Thankfully he did catch my legs and I stayed headstanding unassisted for probably .000003 seconds, but at least I did it I suppose. I felt a high after the class actually.  Doing something that I had never thought possible for myself.  I wanted to hug fit yoga man for pushing me to accomplish a fear.  I didn’t of course, but I did tell him how much I enjoyed his class.  He didn’t seem nearly as pleased with my progression as I was and isn’t that to be expected?  He actually began telling me about Ashtanga yoga, but I saw the glaze form over his eyes like he expected to never see me again and why was he wasting his breath explaining such a thing to this bleach blonde, slow speaking, imbalanced dud of a human being and I don’t exactly disagree with his synopsis of me.  I would probably think the same thing if I was him. But I have learned what to do in a situation where said glaze begins to form over the eyes of the person you are talking.  Sadly, this has happened to me more than once.  I grimaced out a smile, slightly nodded my head, and told him thanks again, and quickly made my way outside to freedom, a heavy sigh escaping my lips as I did so. If I haven’t gotten the whole having your life together at this point I don’t think I ever will, so I just need to embrace the fact that I’m awkward, embrace the fact that I am directionally challenged, embrace the fact that I have an unhealthy amount of anxiety and self loathing, embrace the fact that things will never come naturally or easily for me and maybe there’s a lesson in all that.  At least I know who I am and that really says a lot because for many years I hadn’t a clue and maybe most people don’t; maybe most people are just pretending they have it all together.  I just wish I was a better pretender.

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.

Mexico City is daunting, intimidating, terrifying. It was the largest city in the Western Hemisphere in the early 16th century and currently the largest metropolitan area in North America with the population in the city proper at over 9.2 million people. Where there’s a lot of people, there’s a lot of crime, but I haven’t seen it and that has always caused me to wonder if it has more bark then any actual bite, but then again I’ve only traveled with people who are familiar with the city. G’s told me stories about walking to and from school without being afraid, but kids so rarely were in the early 90s, times have most definitely changed or are we just more aware? I always struggle with the answer to that question. However, his mother has shared other stories with me as well. Like the time she took the bus with little G and his sister and someone almost pulled a gun from the waist of his jeans when an altercation, that had nothing to do with the gun carrier, was occurring between another patron and the bus driver. She started driving herself places after that, better to brave the traffic on your own terms, she told me. Every time I have gone with his family they have protected me in their cocoon. Don’t put your cell phone in your back pocket, his mother would say; G would always make sure he walked on the street closest to the traffic and made sure my purse was body strapped and stuck between the both of us, my hand resting on it protectively. So, you can imagine my anxiety as I embarked on yet another adventure, taking an Uber, by myself, in Mexico City. G prepared me of course. I carried in my backpack my iPad, lip gloss, eye lash glue and a tampon; that was really it. Everything else: cell phone, one credit card, ID, and some bills were nestled neatly in my pockets. The thinking being if my bag was grabbed, I would still have on me what was essential, unless I was stolen, and let’s not even consider that a possibility. I began the day by googling, is it safe to take an Uber in Mexico City, the answer was it is “generally considered safe” the word generally was not exactly reassuring. I wanted something more on the lines of “definitely, It’s always a safe bet.” But alas, I got generally. Google then proceeded to give me several tips for my safety, tips that I followed down to the letter. I shared my location with my husband, both on my phone and using the Uber app (I didn’t even know you could do that). I immediately checked my Uber driver’s rating once confirmed (4.999, and he had over 1,000 rides, that seemed really good). During the trip I followed my ride’s route, my phone tightly clasped in my hand the whole trip. If my driver had varied the route in any way I was fully prepared to leap from the car, dive to the sidewalk. My organs would not be sold on the black market today sir. But everything was going splendidly. I saw the name of the library, my destination, in large black letters plastered on a parking garage, so I knew that I was in the right place. I wasn’t being kidnapped and human trafficked, thank God for that. The driver soon stopped, turned to me and said something in Spanish. It was a something that I didn’t quite understand, but it was a something that I assumed was, can I drop you off here or do you want me to deliver you closer like I was some sort of delicate flower that would wilt if left outside for too long, but I wanted to prove that I knew what I was doing so I quickly said si followed by a muchas gracias with one hand already on the door handle and then I leapt from the car to my freedom with a sigh of relief. I had made it, or so I thought. I began to walk with purpose as I turned the corner of the parking garage, expecting to find the front of the library right there, but it wasn’t. I immediately pulled my phone from my pocket and typed in the name of my destination without much hesitation and kept moving. G has always said to never stand still because that’s when you attract unwanted attention, something that I most assuredly did not want to do, not today at least. I pretended that I was a Mexico City citizen, my new character for the day. However, the more I walked, the more I had my doubts that I was heading in the right direction. You can see why I was concerned. Notice the trash, the man lying on the ground, the lack of people to hear me scream and in Mexico City, where people are everywhere, that is a big cause for concern. But Google maps was telling me to go in this particular direction, so like Michael Scott I followed Google’s instructions, even when my spidery sense was telling me something was very wrong. I felt like Michael when he drove his car straight into the lake because Google said it was the right way to go. I also followed Google’s instructions because I’m a sheep too and apparently common sense is not a thing for sheep. I eventually FaceTimed G, embarrassed, so wanting to have proved my new character of trendy Mexico City native, yes citizen is no longer good enough for me now, I prefer native. I hung up on him once as I fumbled for the right button on a phone that suddenly felt too big for my hands. We figured out that yes I was in fact heading in the wrong direction, no shock there, and in my excitement to get out of the Uber, I had completely missed the side gate which led to the entrance. But I made it in the end, red faced, sweating, I entered the Biblioteca Vasconcelos. Once inside, I could finally breath again. I was home. The Biblioteca Vasconcelos, a public library, covers 38,000 square meters and houses over 600,000 books. I felt like I kept walking and walking, never reaching the end of this building . Hanging in the center was the bones of a dinosaur and I, of course, had to take a picture standing beneath it. Being a bibliophile, I was struck by the magnitude of the place . So many stories, so many dedications of lives told through words all in one place that I began to tear up as I’m so prone to do when traveling and faced with a true love of mine. The realization of how lucky I am to be on this earth, to love what I love, and to be surrounded by it all in this moment in time is simply the best thing in the world to me. This particular biblioteca also had a garden that stretched on one of its sides and I began to wonder why more libraries don’t have such a thing and maybe they do in other places; I am just unfamiliar. I decided, now that since I’m a pro at Uber riding in Mexico City, that I would visit another public library. This one was called Biblioteca de Mexico “Jose Vasconcelos”. The layout was different than the other biblioteca. It reminded me more of a palace than a public library. There were several entry ways before I even spotted the first book. Everything was so open, airy and I wished I could have relaxed in all of that splendid openness, but it was raining. A down pour that was a small one at first, but then turned into a thunderstorm. The Biblioteca de Mexico has more than 155,000 works and is organized over five large rooms, each one more unique than the last. I found myself hanging on the outskirts of one of the rooms when I spotted this statue staring at me. I wanted to immediately steal the thing, smuggle it back into the states for my own home library. Once you have a pinkish red yarn man, do you really need anything else? I then noticed a group of librarians trying to get my attention through several large hand waves and a pleasant smile or two. I walked over and they excitedly began to explain more about how the library was set up, they even dug a pamphlet written in English out of a dusty pile underneath one of their desks and gave it to me. They acted like they hadn’t gotten a visitor in quite some time and their excitement really warmed my heart. Yes, I began to tear up, again. This library was so beautiful, with each room being it's own special kind of peace, each book promising to take the reader through a journey of discovery and awakening if someone would dare to just open the covers. Sometimes I feel that the people who don't read are just afraid of what real knowledge might mean for them. The entire day was one that I will always remember for it featured my very first love, los libros. I’m so thankful I didn’t let my anxiety deter me from experiencing the day although there were times I did have my doubts. The hotel bed always looks so much cozier, the sheets more comfortable to hide beneath, the hotel bar so much friendlier than having to brave the outside with all of its scary unknowns, but I sucked up my anxiety once again and I'm so happy, like I always am, that I did. Thank you G for suggesting I spend the day completely surrounded by books, which you know always make me endlessly happy.

CONTENT WARNING: This article has nothing to do with being anxious. This particular day was free from all of that. It probably had to do with the fact that I was surrounded by a small number of familiar faces, in a mostly familiar place, or it could have been that my new antidepressant was finally kicking in, although I really prefer it to be the former. I've already written why I chose to get married in Mexico, but I haven't written about the actual wedding ceremony itself, one in which I was told would only last for five minutes and wouldn’t be a big deal at all. That is what G assured me after I asked him about it for like the thousandth time. He was wrong. But I'm actually glad that he was this time, for it was a surprisingly quaint homage to the sweetness of looking your chosen partner in the eyes and vowing to be together forever. Ok, I may have just rolled my own eyes for daring to even write such a thing. It's very uncharacteristically not me, preferring true crime thrillers over romance novels, unless one of the romantic leads dies in a terribly tragic way, then maybe I can stomach it. I love surreally strange movies, hopefully featuring Nicolas Cage, over a rom com any day of the week. All the paperwork had previously been filled out, or I should say G filled it out and I offered mild murmurs of, "Let me know if I can do anything," all the while knowing that he would take care of it for me. Call me lucky if you want, I prefer blessed. I know, I know, this article is getting ickier and ickier by the word, the sentence even, but I can't help it, this was a great day. Our appointment time was set for 11:50 AM. I brought a white dress from home for the occasion; it was actually the same dress I wore to the dinner that we had the night before the wedding back in 2019. I wished I had bought a cheap vail and was kicking myself for not having thought of it sooner. Although this “wasn’t going to be a big deal” I still wanted to look in character; today being Vegas bride; I don't know why Vegas came to mind, but that's what it felt like to me, or at least it did, at first. Of course I should have known that G, who prides himself in always having the most random of things for any type of possible occasion that may or may never occur, is the product of his mother, which must be where he gets it from. When I moved in with him, I immediately tossed loads of random stuff away? Who needs three ninja blenders anyway? Of course I was not aware that each ninja served a specific purpose and the moment we had people over and watermelon margaritas were suggested, he immediately began looking for that particular ninja, the one that was used for cocktails. I hid my embarrassed blush as I helped him look, knowing full well that I had thrown it away months ago. Anyway, I digress. Ana disappeared into her room for a bit to only emerge with a huge triumphant smile as she waved three objects in front of me. One, a lengthy piece of white tulle, two, one of the handmaid bridesmaid’s bouquets that we had put together for my original wedding, and three, the gold and pearl crown that Sophia, my flower girl and G's niece, had worn in her hair the first time around. I clapped my hands with glee as I grabbed my new borrowed belongings and rushed upstairs to get to work. I definitely looked in character. Or, should I say, we both did. I literally thought we would be getting married outside, in front of this sliding glass window, where we had to hand deliver our materials and G had to pay for the marriage license; it costing him more because it was a "mixed" marriage; their words, not mine. But I, of course, was wrong, which seems to happen to me a lot when I visit Mexico. Me, realizing how wrong I was. Could be the language barrier, could be the different cultural dynamics, who can really tell, but I'm a pro at going with the flow at this point and who doesn't love a bit of the unexpected anyway. We soon were ushered into the building around the corner and then into this lovely room. They had made it look so perfect. We naturally waited for a bit. As I was waiting I looked down at my dress and discovered this monstrosity of a stain. Cue the viral Tik Tok trend that everyone was doing a while back with the "uh ohs,” I have no idea how I didn't notice this before this very moment. I even tried the dress on before I packed it. But then I vaguely remembered the last time I wore the dress. Remember I said it was the night before the wedding back in 2019; a night that may or may not have ended with an unfortunate encounter with some queso. By the looks of it the queso had won the war and I had forgotten to clean up the remnants of the battle field. Our officiate, an attorney, recovering from a noise job by the looks of it, somehow I love this small detail, soon joined us. Let me note here how much I love that I was married by a woman the first time as well. Moments like this make me feel like the universe is aligning in my favor. We had to sign a lot of paperwork. Our four witnesses: G's parents, cousin, and their little house maid, had to present their INE or Mexican voting card before the ceremony could commence. Here is Rafael and Ciara. Yes, Ciara is as short as she appears. The ceremony was sweet and quite lengthy; the officiate spoke a portion in Spanish and in English. Vegas really has nothing on Mexico when it comes to courthouse weddings. I don't know why I'm surprised that it was taken so seriously. (A professional photographer was even present.) Mexico has always had traditionally lower divorce rates than the United States. While the US has a divorce rate that fluctuates between 40-50%, in Mexico there is only 1.7 divorces per 1,000 people, although I don't know where the .7 comes from. Did someone start the divorce process and then back out or maybe that is just how math works when you are computing averages. Comment below if you know the answer. Unless your comment is your stupid, how do you not get averages, then I would say keep your opinion to yourself; I will continue to be happy in my ignorance. It really was so much fun and I wasn’t at all, unlike the first time around when my heart felt like it was beating a million times a minute and I couldn’t quite shaking, nervous. After the ceremony was over we of course celebrated with some ceviche and champagne on the beach with the sea as our audience, my favorite one to be quite honest. And then this perfect day was over and I felt much like how I did the first time around, content. My Mexican wedding date is officially June 12th, my American one being June14th. You of course know what that means now...two anniversaries, two yearly celebrations, and two anniversary gifts, I don’t think G thought that last part through, but I'm not complaining.

I have this thing, where G will treat me to something amazing, something that my awkward little self is unused too and I will inevitably prove that as much as I want to appear like someone that is accustomed to such treatment, I'm not. In fact, it's so outside the whelm of my own possibilities, it's like I manifest the situation to turn into another embarrassing episode. You would think I would be quite accustomed to such things at this point, but I'm always surprised when they happen to me, each and every time. Case in point: Madrid, last summer. It was my birthday week and G, who had been checking on hotels for months, saving up all of his Marriott points, for months, got a hotel room where dreams are quite literally made. It had two bathrooms. TWO. One bathroom is not enough now that I know two can be a thing. Once you have two, you can never go back; in fact it would be cruel to even ask that of a person. After checking in, G went to the gym and I decided to treat myself to a luxurious shower in the master bathroom. Long story short, I flooded that bathroom. Now when I say flooded, I mean at least an inch of water that no amount of towels used could mop up. And believe me, I used all of them. And to make matters worse, as I was trying to frantically clean up the massive lake that was now in the bathroom, I heard a faint knock on the door, but I disregarded it, as you would, when you're in a new country, don't speak the language, and have Noah's flood to clean up. I ignore people when they come to the front door at home, surely that would work in this situation. Wrong! I heard a nose and a male voice. I panicked of course, grabbed the nearest towel, even though there were perfectly good, amazingly soft robes, if I would have just opened one of the closet doors. But I hurriedly wrapped the towel instead around myself, peaked around the corner. A small Spanish man had entered the room. His eyes widened when he saw my half naked self and then he began to explain why he was there amidst, I believe, a heartfelt apology or two. I quickly stated, "No habla espanol" and then proceeded to brokenly communicate that my husband was not there. I have no idea if he understood me. "I think it's my terrible accent," I told G once. "That's why no one can understand my Spanish." "No," he said. "You're not saying the words correctly." And that would make sense, since half the time I speak Spanish to a native speaker and I'm met with questioning eyes, confused looks. The Spanish man soon scuttled away, with an embarrassed nod or two thrown in my direction. G can go into the whys and hows of what I did to flood that bathroom. Lots of science and math would be involved, but it still did not change the fact that it happened, to me. Again, in Venice, same summer, through his investigative skills and perseverance, we got to stay at the St. Regis. Upon entering our room, a bottle of a peach cocktail was sitting on the table with a note explaining how happy the hotel staff was that we were staying with them and to enjoy this free bottle, on them. Hells to the yeah, I thought. I was fully prepared to finish the bottle but I needed some ice for my glass. I searched the hotel room and then searched some more, but as much as I looked I couldn’t find the ice bucket. “G,” I said. “I will get us some ice, but where's the bucket.” He sadly shook his head as he tilted it to one side with a sigh. “ Babe, there’s not an ice machine in a hotel like this; you call the concierge and they will bring you whatever you want.” I didn’t of course call the concierge because you know, anxiety, but I did drink that bottle, every last warm drop of it. And don't get me started on the time I caught my sleeve on fire at a nice sushi restaurant in front of my in laws, or the time I was trying to get meat off of a skewer and it shot across the room. Or the aqua mineral/melon debacle of 2021. The list can go on and on. So, when it was suggested that we go to Pujol, one of the top restaurants in the world, imagine how I felt. I could foresee mistakes being made, wine being spilt, mouth unknowingly being stained as my teeth became embedded with some sort of greenery that would stay wedged between a front tooth until I was back in the hotel room and looked in the mirror. A little background information about the restaurant first. Pujol, between 2011 to 2022, was consistently ranked one of the top restaurants in the world, receiving two Michelin stars in 2020. It's highest ranking was 5th in 2022 by the The World's 50 Best Restaurant List, as well as being recognized as the top restaurant in North America that same year . It opened in 2000 by Chief Enrique Olvera with the vision to showcase traditional Mexican cuisine. Jesus Duron is now the chef de cuisine, but maintains the original vision of the restaurant. Needless to say, I was excited for this experience, and was more than willing to forgo another embarrassing mishap or two to have it. Pujol is located in one of the nicer parts of Mexico City, but if you didn’t know it was there you might walk right past it, we actually did and we were looking for it. G walked confidently to the front desk looking like he owned the place, I naturally lagged behind unsure and a bit nervous, what if our reservation hadn’t gone through? Sometimes I stand a few steps back when in an unfamiliar situation, my fight or flight instinct always being more flight than fight. We were 15 minutes early by the way. Miracles do happen. The restaurant itself is not very large. There is inside and outside options that seamlessly merge from one to the other. We were seated quite close to two other couples on the inside portion. I wish we would have had a bit more privacy. I kept getting distracted by their conversations and then began to make up stories about each of their relationships, but I couldn't share my thoughts with G because we were sitting so close to them. No fun! There were seven course to be had and I chose to also purchase the drink pairing where they paired traditional Mexican beverages with five of the courses. It’s important to note here that this seven course tasting menu is set, with a few exceptions. I noticed the other couples shared a few of our choices, but others were quite different and not even listed on our menu, so there may be more than one tasting menu to choose from, I’m not really sure, but if you know drop a comment explaining. The menu or menus do change seasonally, except for the mole, and I will get to that little piece of heaven a bit later. Upon being seated, the waiter, as all waiters and restaurants that cater to English speakers usually do, asked which language I would like to have the menu and instructions. G looked at me. "It's up to you," he said and me having a rare bold moment of confidence said, "Let's do Spanish, I'm practicing." The waiter nodded his head with a half grin and then proceeded the instructions in Spanish. I was lost in 2.5 seconds. Needless to say it was around the third or fourth course, my confusion etched into the lines of my face, that our waiters switched over to English. So, my apologies that my descriptions of each course are not as accurate as they would have been if I had just said that I preferred being told them in English. Course #1: Botanas or Snacks: Two baby elotes, potato stuffed gorditas with chili mayonnaise, and lychees All of this you can find as street food in Mexico. The elotes being my absolute favorite. You can pick up a huge corn on the cub smeared with mayonnaise and a white crumbled cheese, or have it rubbed in lime juice and chili, almost anywhere you walk in Mexico City. Of course, this was an elevated version of the traditional elote and was covered with some sort of orange spicy sauce. Gorditas you can as well find on the streets. Little old lady's dropping them into vats of hot oil, fried to perfection, but they usually are stuffed with different kinds of meat and a white cheese and cream. The presentation, as you can see was impeccable, however I almost prefer the street corn over this high end version. I like the larger kernels of corn and mayo unceremoniously dripping down my chin with each bite and chili powder that burns your mouth, your tongue upon contact. The gorditas, however, melted in your mouth and the lychee was the perfect sweetness to round out the first course. Course #2: We got to pick between a ceviche or a parota salad G choice the ceviche. The ceviche had big chunks of shrimp, octopus, and fish. However, what made this dish different from the traditional ceviche was the sauce; it was thick, almost like a soup. All in all it was very refreshing. The lime flavor came through, but was not quite as citrusy as I prefer. I opted for the salad. The salad was a reconstruction of tomatoes, kidney beans, guamuchil, which is a tree that produces these fleshy sweet edible seeds, and parota which is also a tree that makes edible seeds as well. The whole thing, put together, was fresher and lighter than the ceviche. I could definitely taste the sweetness of the seeds and mixed with the lime in the vinaigrette it was very refreshing. The pairing drink was a nonalcoholic kabocha, which was very sweet and refreshing. I was glad it was not sour like some kabochas I have had before. I tasted primarily pineapple in the drink. Course #3: We got to pick again between two dishes. G chose the wild muscle birria. A traditional Mexican birria is usually a slow cooked stew made with very tender goat, lamb, or beef. But in this birria they used mussels and the sauce was not as thick, which made it a lighter version of the traditional. It of course came with tortillas, to be used as the foundation to put some of the meat and sauce upon. G really enjoyed this nontraditional birria, but if you don't like fresh mussels than it probably would not be for you. I chose the Aztec cake. It was a lot lighter than G's dish and another reconstruction. The way it was layered reminded me of vegetarian lasagna. It had layers of of choyota, which is a tropical American vine that yields an edible root. Choyota has the texture of a pear, but the flavors of cucumber and it was all put together in a light tomato sauce, hence why it looked and felt like a lasagna. Overall, this dish was extremely light and fresh. They paired this dish with a Mexican beer called Cielito Lindo, a Vienna Lager that originates in Jalisco, Mexico. This was actually the highlight of this dish for me. It had a woodsy vanilla flavor and was absolutely delicious. The heartiness of the beer was the perfect compliment to the lightness of the cake. Course #4: Our choices tlincluded a full blood wagyu, zarandeado fish and quelites salad, or (what we didn't choose) a wild sweet potato in the embers, male peanut, and the children of amaranth. I don't know really what any of that meant, besides the sweet potato, but it was a vegetarian dish and G does not do "that shit," he told me later. G chose the wagyu. It was short ribs that were in a roasted adobe sauce and Monte Verdolagas cactus with a slice of avocado. Tortillas were also included and as our waiter said, everything in Mexico you eat with a tortilla. I thought the meat was delicious, however, G thought that even though the meat was a great quality cut, the way that it was cooked was not rare enough, so flavors that could have been great were just mediocre. I chose the zarandeado fish. This dish traditionally features a whole fish, typically a snapper that is butterflied, marinated, and grilled over hot coals. I loved the fish. They kept the skin on and it was crispy, lemony, with some sweetness mixed in. A small quelites salad was on the side. It resembled more of a spinach salad with an almost nonexistent vinaigrette. This dish was paired with a Mexican brute. I should have taken a picture of it, but the waiter whisked the bottle away before I had the opportunity and I didn't want to ask him to bring it back; that's incredibly silly because these waiters were superb, catering to my every need. If I dropped my napkin or purse they appeared out of no where to pick it up for me. I really liked the brut, however, it was a bit sweeter than brutes I've had in the past. Feeling at this point - Course #5: And now the highlight and what this restaurant is in fact known for, the mole madre, or mother mole. This mole is a fresh mole, which is the light brown center, paired with a 1500 day aged mole, which is the outer darker ring. Our waiter said to start in the center and work your way out and of course, tortillas were provided to scoop up all of that deliciousness. G had to show me how to pinch the edges of the tortilla so it makes a spoon. I struggled with doing this of course and just smushed the tortilla flat side down, as a true white girl would, to absorb any and all of the extra deliciousness. I have had mole before and it tasted more like the center section, a bit sour with hints of coffee, however, the outer edge, the part that had been aged for all of those days was savory, woodsy, and had hints of dark chocolate. It was heavenly, no matter how full I was, I wanted another plate of it. I read that at one point, when the chef changed the menu as is done seasonally, he got rid of the mole, and there was a slight uproar. So now if you ever go to Pujol, rest assured, the mole will be there to greet you and you will fall in love with it as I did. I resisted the urge to pick up the plate and lick the excess or use my fingers, since we ran out of tortillas. The mole dish was paired with a tequila, one of G's favorites actually, The Family Reserve Extra Anejo. I, of course, love this tequila as well. We actually have several bottles of it at home. When I moved in with G I had no idea that this was a sipping tequila, with special tequila flutes, which I filled to the brim, such a big no no for the tequila aficionado, especially when it is also quite expensive. Course #6: Dessert. Our choices: A coconut custard, a rice lychee pudding with a toasted vanilla fritter on top, or a Chocolate tamale with ice cream. G chose the rice lychee pudding. G, for the record loves loves rice pudding and it did taste how it traditionally should. It wasn't overly sweet or heavy. I chose the chocolate tamale of course. I love anything chocolate. I had a bit of trouble getting the cake out of the tamale. G had to to undo the strings on each side for me, but once the chocolate was unveiled, it was very dark, but again not overly sweet. The cake was spongy and had a dark coffee flavor although the texture was a bit gritty, but not in a bad way; I could taste the individual chocolate pieces. The chocolate was from Soconusco and the cajeta ice cream was from Sayula. The ice cream tasted like a typical vanilla ice cream and paired well with the darkness of the cake. The drink pairing was one of the best drinks I've ever had. It was a tequilla blanco and steamed milk. I would never have thought to pair these two things together, but the flavors complimented each other so well. The tequilla was strong, but the sweetness of the milk combatted that. Since it was our anniversary celebration, they included this cake as well. It was a mango cake wrapped in a banana leaf. The cake itself was incredibly spongy and very light and fresh. The perfect ending to this meal, I thought. But we weren't done quite yet. They then brought out three small pieces of Mexican chocolate and this almost put me over the edge, but we shared them anyway. They were very rich and dark and just small little bites. It would have been perfectly paired with a red wine, but I couldn't have fit another thing into my stomach and that's saying a lot for me especially since I do have a love affair with most wines. My final take away is that I would definitely go back, just for the mole if nothing else. The drink pairing menu was not worth the money in my opinion. Next time I would just get a couple glasses of wine. I was treated like a queen or princess, at the very least. The staff was so generous, nice, and catered to our every want and need. They even escorted us out of the restaurant and into our uber. I was proud that I didn't catch my dress on fire or flood the restaurant. I did have a cold, so was trying to discreetly blow my nose amidst many a tissue that I hid in my purse after each quiet blow, so as not to disgust the people sitting around me. We left Pujol with full stomachs and an amazing experience that I will remember for a long time to come.

Let’s be clear, I was not wanting to run on this particular day.  It was raining for one thing, I had a cold for another, and Mexico City has an altitude that is 7,349 feet above sea level.  (To put that in perspective Denver, Colorado is 5,280 feet.) My bougie lungs were having issues handling such thin, dry air. Also, I was drained, beyond tired both mentally and physically.  My anxious brain was whispering that it couldn’t handle another outing, another experience when I have already done so much. My body was screaming at me to rest.  It’s our last day, it said, and it’s a travel day; one in which you won’t land in your next destination until 3:30 AM the following morning.  Every Sunday Mexico City shuts down one of its largest, if not most iconic streets, the Paseo de la Reforma from 8 AM to 2 PM for cyclists, runners, walkers, and  rollerbladers.  This program is called the Muévete en Bici program, also known as Ciclovia, which aims to promote physical activity.  Sometimes you can even rent bikes and rollerblades, although they are at a first come, first serve basis. Our hotel was on the very road that would be shut down, a perfectly serendipitous opportunity for me to participate in such an event. Do you really want to brave another experience where people will be speaking Spanish and you again won’t understand. What if you are instructed to do one thing, and you, not understanding, do the opposite like stumble into oncoming traffic? This happened to you once in New York, remember? You almost got hit by a motorcycle. You don’t want to get even sicker, my body grumbled next, you know what can happen when you over do it.  And I do know.  My physical body and I have had a love-hate relationship for 43 years now.  Me pushing it past the uncomfortable and it, never one to be outdone, simply breaking down. Cue the myriad of injuries. I will only do two miles, I quietly promised both mind and body, mainly so both entities would just shut up and stop complaining. I even told G the same thing though.  Two miles and I will be done. I started the run around 9 AM. You can really start at any point for 55 kilometers (34 miles) of the road is closed to all motorized traffic. There were tents set up along the way for bikers who might need to air or change a tire or two, as well as getting some much needed water, however today as it was raining, and getting colder by the minute, water wasn’t as big of a deal. Also, police officers, acting as crossing guards for the moment, heavily monitored areas to allow traffic through when necessary.  This little guy, not a police officer, at least I don’t think so, provided my entertainment at one stop. Another point of entertainment and a great place to take a breather was this group of runners who suddenly stopped to perform a music-less choreographed dance to cheers, photographs, and applause. And if you aren’t a runner or cyclist you could practice in tai chi like this group of people were doing. Along the route I ran into many of the most iconic monuments in Mexico City. G told me once that the monuments act as a navigational system to never completely losing your way in the city.  Like Colorado with the mountains or the coasts with the ocean, the city has the monuments to direct you home. I didn’t really get what he meant until I participated in this run. And he was right, they do provide an anchor to navigating your way through out the city, unless your me and get lost anywhere and everywhere I go. At this point I should just do the opposite of every urge when it comes to finding my way. I came across three monuments on my route. Monument to Cuauhtémoc, this is the fifth of the ten Paseo de la Reforma glorietas.  On the statue base are the names of Cuauhtemoc allies who fought alongside him against the Spanish invaders.  Cuitláhuac’s name is the most prominent, probably because he is credited with having celebrated the most significant victory against the Spanish. Glorieta de las Mujeres que Luchan (translation: Round about of the Women Who Fight), is actually known as an anti monument.  It is dedicated to recognizing feminist’s activists and their contributions. And perhaps the most iconic and recognizable monument, El Ángel or The Angel of Independence.  The architect, Antonio Rivas Mercado, designed the monument to commemorate the 100th anniversary of the beginning of Mexico’s War of Independence.   It was here that I decided to turn around and head back to my hotel.  I was actually really enjoying the run and looking down at my watch I realized that I would finish at about three miles, instead of the initial two that I had planned.  Not bad, I thought.   I ran, and then ran some more.  It took me awhile, 1.5 miles to be exact, to realize that I had completely passed my hotel and now, of course, the light drizzle had turned into more of a solid rain. Mexico City’s road are not straight by any means.  They curve to the right and then to the left and then somewhere in between those two things and if you lose your focus for one minute you can be quite off the path in which you were aiming and it’s not like I could take an uber back to the hotel, the roads being blocked and all.  So, I did what any runner would do, I hiked my big girl panties up and ran the damn thing. I finished at 4.5 miles, not bad for a girl trying to get back into running. I was glad I participated in the event, like I knew I would be after, when it was over, and I was enjoying a cappuccino, my chilled hands grasped tightly around the warm cup. I have never participated in a run where I wasn’t racing and I liked that I could go at a comfortable pace without feeling like I needed to beat the person in front of me or feeling bad if I was outrun by a stealthier, more athletic girl. Usually it was the latter that I felt, never being very athletic, but still liking the sport nonetheless. To participate in something with like minded individuals really does make you feel less alone in the world, it’s probably why I like to go to music festivals, concerts, the theatre, races, and other such events.   They say (I don’t really know who they is but I assume it’s someone much smarter than I) that humans are not designed to be their own island and sometimes, I will admit,  I don’t agree, being an introvert at heart. I think an island most days sounds absolutely heavenly, however, on this day in particular I got it.  A shared passion encourages us to bind together, forget about the negatives that are happening around us, be it racial tension, political viewpoints, etc. For a brief moment in time you realize that we are all human and do share more with each other than may have been previously thought.   I didn’t talk to anyone throughout the whole experience, but ran with a smile and several happy nods directed at the volunteers. However, I still felt a bond form between my fellow runners and I. On this day we all got up, looked at the weather via phone or out the window, decided damn the rain we are running, put on our variously preferred running pieces of gear, and embarked on a mutually liked adventure. No one can take that experience away from us, no matter how the world shapes itself into being and maybe that’s what it’s about. Enjoying the moment even if your mind anxiously whispers it’s just too much, your body screams profanities that it’s tired and needs a break. The journey is what makes it all worth it.

It’s a shame that food as always been an issue for me. Call it body dysmorphia, call it disordered eating, call it bigger, scarier labels, hours of therapy, hours of crying, hours of hating myself has just been a sometimes large, sometimes small factor in my daily life. Something that has grown with me like an ugly mole, the kind that isn’t malignant, but won’t go away as if to say I’m part of you now, so you just have to deal with it.  All of that is to lead up to say that going to an all inclusive resort can be a struggling eaters worst nightmare. You would think this would be impossible. Struggling, being anxious should be an anomaly in one of these places. Everyone's job is to cater to your every desire and besides all that, the resort that we were staying in was very much Americanized.  All staff, servers, bartenders spoke passable English and after not hearing very much of it for a week, it was a blessing.  So, Elizabeth, you may ask, what on earth do you have to be anxious about?  Oh, dear reader, I will find something don’t you worry that pretty little head of yours.  I can make the impossible, very very possible, believe you me. Let’s start with the resort itself. We stayed at the Royalton Riviera Cancun.  We have stayed at it once before and found the food to be better than most all inclusives.  I have found that sometime at these resorts the flavors, the tastes, seem to all run together after awhile, but that had not been our experience at this particular one. Also, they have entertainment every night, quite good entertainment actually.  And the gym, we remembered, was top notch.  Not huge, by any means, but the equipment was all very new and expensive looking.  However, the last time we stayed here they were doing construction on one of the adult only pools, which caused everyone to cluster around the much large one.  This posed some issues, mainly that people were paying the staff to save them chairs in the morning.  Luckily, I’m an early riser so I managed to snag chairs for us everyday, although they were the last ones to grab and it gave me anxiety each morning that I wouldn’t wake up in time and once I did save our chairs, what if someone disregarded our towels, our bags and simply put their own things in their place? Also, after coming from Mexico City where I was chastised for even putting my cell phone on the table next to me instead of securing it in my pocket or bag, the thought of just leaving our things unattended seemed foolish.  So, when G suggested with twinkling eyes and a smile that he needed to unwind and going to such a place would help him do just that, I tried to keep my food anxiety at bay, not wanting to ruin the trip with my negative self talk, most of which I almost always can't help but to verbalize, as much as I try. G sprung for a room with an upstairs balcony, something that was a surprise for me, which explains the twinkle and the smile.  I actually couldn’t believe it.  I have never stayed at a hotel with a spiral staircase leading to its own private lounge area, hot tub included.  This girl loves a hot tub and doesn’t care how hot it may be, you better believe I will be using the thing and I did, more than once. The room itself was extremely nice, the bathroom in particular, having a large bathtub in the center of it.  I used that as well. Love a bath. Call me Meredith from Real Housewives of Salt Lake City. If you know, you know. And we had a great view. The first picture is from the downstairs balcony, the second from the upstairs. Can I say again TWO balconies. I can never just have one again. Once you have two, can you ever really go back to a measly one? It rained our first full day, but that didn't deter us from having our fun.  However, we did begin to notice a few things. Servers were not as friendly as the last time we stayed there, staff disappeared as soon as an order was taken never to come back to their post, bartenders were few and far between.  We soon found out that the hotel was closing for a massive lobby reconstruction in a few weeks and it would remain closed for several months.  Awww!! That makes sense why they were so understaffed and the staff that remained weren’t the best; like a C quality and not the A that was before. I still had a great time.  Eat and drank my fair share. Here was a typical breakfast. A good mixture of traditional Mexican fare and normal brunch like items. Eggs, bacon, sausage, you get the idea. And bottomless mimosas of course.  We booked two restaurants for the evenings, the steak house and the Mexican one.  I thought the steak house was exceptional.  My steak was incredibly tender and the mashed potatoes were thick with chunks of potato that melted in my mouth; exactly how I like my mashed potatoes actually.  The Mexican restaurant was fare, but I’m a bit spoiled when it comes to Mexican food now, especially after having just come from Mexico City, but if you aren’t familiar with traditional Mexican food, it presented a good representation. But besides all that it was fun to get dressed up and go on a planned date night. I put together a series of pictures from each night for you to see what I mean. The steak dinner, not included, I was too busy shoveling each delectable morsel unceremoniously into my mouth. The entertainment was fun as well, not as good as I remembered from last year, but we still had a great time; we even danced a couple of nights, one of my favorite things to do with G, although I’m so much more light on my feet without my heels, something that he reminds me that a true Latina would never stand for, taking her heels off to dance barefoot on the hard marble floor.  What can I say? I’m a white girl with limited moves and balance. I tried not to hate myself as I cleaned each plateful of food and drank each sugar laden beverage.  I tried to not think of all the calories that were being forcefully pushed into my system, expanding my waistline, my jaw. I tried to count my blessings because I am so very thankful to be in such a place, that G has given me the freedom to have some content for this viewer less blog.  When that snaky voice began to creep in with the ugly retorts, the fat shaming, the self degradation I sucked down my fifth margarita, gobbled down my third plate of chilaquiles and shouted at it to FUCK OFF, let me enjoy this week; healthy food will still be there to greet me when I’m good and ready for it. And I feel that I did mostly succeed, but it’s still a shame that I let my own head detour what could have been a perfectly pleasant route. I know I’m not alone in this. I know that we all have our things because we are human and that’s part of the experience, I suppose, I just hope that when I look back at this week, I don’t think about my ever expanding gut and more about how blessed I was to be treated like a princess. I think I will for those negative thoughts have already taken flight to bother some other part of my brain and one day I hope that they will eventually just wither and die to be replaced with something brighter, something sweeter, something that fills my soul with love for the person who I am, the person who is strong, who is beautiful, who is worthy, and who is very very special.

Sundays have become one of my favorite days of the week.  A Sunday Funday I call it, filled with some of my favorite things: mimosas, a myriad of facial cleansers, masks, and scrubs (maybe not in that order) much to the chagrin of my husband who looks at me after a sigh that speaks more than words ever could say and then shakes his head or tilts it to one side confused. I don't really know if all of the creams, masks, scrubs work, but it makes me feel good, and isn't that the real point of it all. But my self care doesn't just stop there. I enjoy a mani, pedi, my manicurist being one of my best friends, and of course a monthly massage or facial, depending on how I feel. So, it should be of no surprise that finding a nail and massage salon was literally high on my list of things that I needed, no, not just wanted, needed to do for myself, even if I was in another country.  Now you may think that everything is so much cheaper in Mexico and it is in places, but you have to look for them and the service may be a bit unfamiliar, but you are in a different country, so that should be expected.  If you want the American version of things you can find them here of course and you will pay American prices for them, or at least the prices that I pay in middle America.  If I lived on the coasts I might feel a bit differently. I took my time finding a nail salon, having written down some numbers and whatsapping more than a few places. By the way, I love the fact that the salons here prefer a WhatsApp message rather than a phone call. The amount of anxiety I have when calling someone is extraordinarily quite high. Sometimes I forget what to say next or I begin to talk when the other person is talking. And then if the date and time that I need does not align with their schedule, I shakily try to switch back and forth from my google calendar and our phone conversation, always hitting the wrong button and then frantically apologizing before trying to figure out how to to put them on speaker phone. In other words, texting was and is a godsend for someone like me. Many of the salons that I reached out to were charging 800 to 1000 pesos for an acrylic manicure fill with gel.  That’s an equivalent to 43 to 53 American dollars, depending on how the dollar is doing of course and lately it hasn’t been doing that well.  And a pedicure with gel was going to run me about 600 to 700 pesos, or 32 to 40 dollars.  You may think that is still cheaper than in America and to be honest with you I probably would have picked one of those places, but G loves to truly become a local when visiting Mexico and going to a tourist trap quite literally would make his skin crawl. I knew this of course, so I went looking to find a better, cheaper option. Surprisingly, the better deal was sitting right next door to our studio apartment. The Beauty Salon, located in Playa del Carmen, is where I decided to go. This is the outside. And the inside. Cute, right? I, of course, brought my own beverage. I showed up at The Beauty Salon, missing two fingernails and feet that needed some tending to.  Areli didn’t bat an eye, but let me know that her English was limited. She started with the pedicure first. My feet, I'm embarrassed to say were really needing it. But I had been walking about 20,000 steps a day and have been trying to get back into running.  Needless to say, my calluses were callusing and a particular two toenails, the same ones that I had completely lost in an unfortunate sandal debacle during the Austen City Limits music festival had seen better days.  At one point I told her, using broken Spanish of course, and having this uncontrollable need to over explain why my feet were in such a state, that I was a runner.  I also knew the Spanish word for run, so I wanted to impress her with my amazing Spanish vocabulary. She looked at me for a beat and then said, “And do you run with tennis shoes?”  As if to imply that perhaps I run barefoot and that would explain why each toe had a marble sized callus on it or maybe she wasn't implying anything at all, tennis shoes being the only word that she knew. I get it. Conversing is limited when words are not remembered and the tone can sometimes get lost, diminished or misinterpreted. If you have ever struggled with learning a new language, please drop me a comment, would love to share a story or two; maybe I'm not the only one that feels like an idiot when my too large tongue can't wrap itself around the unfamiliar words fast enough. Areli worked diligently on my feet for perhaps two hours and my hands for another two.  So different from America where time seems to always be running out, the person that has their time slot after yours is already lined up, ready to take your warm chair so that they can get started on their own nails and then get back to their daily life, whatever that may look like for them.  But this is Mexico for you, never rushing, taking time like it’s an unlimited quantity. After you get over the initial idea of not rushing through things I think you will find it a refreshing way to live.  And this makes me ponder the question: why do we rush around so much anyway? Do all of our tasks really have to be completed when we think that they do or can they wait, can we wait, can others wait, and while all that waiting is happening can we just simply begin to live? Both manicure and pedicure cost 900 pesos or 43 dollars.  Over half of what I was paying in the United States and it was well worth it.  Areli was sweet, kind, put up with my limited Spanish skills and messed up feet like a pro. She was very worried that I did not like her process and wanted to make sure I left satisfied. There were a few things this shop did not have, however. When getting my pedicure she asked if I wanted warm or cold water. When I said warm, she went to the coffee pot, where water was warming and used that to fill the small bowl at my feet. The water was at best luke warm, but it being over 90 degrees outside, I really didn’t mind it. Here is the final product, feet not included. This isn't an Only Fans’ account. Now onto my massage.  Around every corner you will see a massage salon and most of them are rather cheap, 35 American dollars or so, but they are on 5th Avenue, one of the busiest streets in Playa del Carmen. Many masseuses' yell at you to come get a massage from them when walking up and down this particular street. I don't like being yelled at for one, and second, I often will do the opposite of what seems the most glaringly popular. If a book has blown up on social media, I will rarely read it. That famous movie that is based on an equally famous book? Unless I have already read the book, I won't read it once fame has gotten itself involved and I most definitely will not see the movie. The same goes for being pressured into getting a massage from the pushy ladies that are throwing pamphlets my way and calling me blondie. That's two strikes actually. This is the place that I found or rather G found for me. My masseuses' name was Marie. Before I even made it inside her salon, she had the door open, cheerfully waving me inside. She then ushered me into a small room with a massage bed.  I noticed that the white sheet she instructed me to get under had seen better days, but I wasn't really that bothered. I of course laid in the opposite direction of how she explained in English mind you that I should. She entered the room, laughed when she noticed what I had done and then told me to turn the other way. Embarrassed I gripped the questionably white sheet and awkwardly made my way to the other side of the bed. There was no music to be turned on, no questions of which scented lotion I would prefer, like I said no frills.  Before I could even completely get comfortable Marie got to work on my back and the strength in this small woman’s hands had me squealing, but alas, I needed it.  I wouldn’t say it was a relaxing experience, but it was a necessary one.  My back was in knots that went all the way up to my neck and she got them out one right after the other with sharp precision and surprising strength.  The whole thing cost me 500 pesos or 26 dollars for 60 minutes, although she finished a few minutes early. I found out later that  she will go to your hotel, apartment, house, if a massage bed is available for a little extra cost. Needless to say I will be going back to both ladies.  After finishing each treatment I had a feeling of loyalty to support truly local, independently owned salons, both seemingly owned by women and that was really the best feeling to me anyway.  Areli was very good, precise, but she did take a very long time, so if you want to wait it out, for the price, it's a diamond in the rough.  In contrast, Marie was fast, she got my knots out, but it was not a relaxing experience.  If you need someone strong to work on you, then she may be your girl, but if you are wanting to relax, be wined and dined, I would look elsewhere, but like anything, you will pay for it.  I have to say my self care preservation has remained in tact, and I’m relieved to note that I will be able to find comparable salons to the ones I adore in the U.S. once we live here full time. Mexico really has everything, but you must have the patience to look, the patience to wait, and really is that such a bad thing? The ocean is my neighbor, and a cat being around every corner, I have promises of many a waiting buddy. Let me know if you have had a manicure, pedicure, or massage in another country. Would love to hear about your experiences.