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The other day I was sent a video by a friend.  An older woman sat behind the screen.  She was adorned with a chunky brown necklace and even chunkier brown earrings.  She was lamenting the fact, almost despised it actually, the people who refer to her as granny because of her age. She didn’t have children, she said proudly, and has in fact never regretted the decision to not have children.  She would much prefer the title of bitch, even witch would be better than the dreaded word granny.  I wonder if it’s the connotation of all that word implies?  I could tell she was not one to go along with the latest trends, one look at her and you could tell she gave two shits about how she was perceived by the world and the people who reside in it. How very freeing, I couldn't help but to think. She isn't afraid to say who she is without fear of judgement, without fear of retribution.  In contrast to her, I’m the type of person who will express my opinion, on those rare days I feel a bit feistier than others, but then I will feel bad that I was too forceful, too original, just plain too much.  Did I offend? I cry to myself. Or anger the person that probably needed to hear the truth anyway.  But will they even understand the truth for what it is?  Should I even waste my time?  Is it even really worth all of that worry when I know what inevitably comes later. Feelings of sadness, of remorse for what I said. A regret and a resolution that I have a hard time coming back from because it refuses to leave me, makes me apologize over and over again for something that I didn’t really do in the first place. How did that woman get past all of that, I wonder. Is it just time that filters the feelings away? When I become older, am I going to suddenly have that practiced skill of owning who I am over and over until I’m blue in the face and ready to be red again? And here’s another thing.  Why can’t I now express my concerns, opinions to others, to myself.   Fuck the ones who have trouble understanding….fuck the ones who don’t understand to begin with…fuck the ones who are selfish and insecure in their own right and don’t know how to behave in normal society, away from the imbeciles and nitwits.  Should I lower myself to their standards because of their close proximity? Or should I rally? Behave in the ways of normalcy without the constraints of my mind weighing me down like a overly heavy pendulum. I don’t know really what the answer is….which is typical if you’ve read this blog long enough.  But I do know what the answer is not.  It’s not believing in the type of people that tell you one thing and then do the other, promise you one thing and then do the other, compliment you one way and then do the other, love you one way and then perform the other.  It’s not that.  Honesty when told correctly, without a sharpened anger or cutting judgment should not feel negative, but an understanding of what you should have known from the very beginning.  And that’s good, isn’t it?  Right, isn’t it?  It’s what makes us grow as human beings, so maybe not completely knowing myself isn’t such a terrible thing after all because I’m growing too, I’m learning too, I’m evolving too so that I can become the best version of myself.

Just so you know I have tried about every type of workout class/club you can imagine: zumba, step aerobics, pilates, barre, yoga, running, spinning, lifting, circuit training, pole dancing, TRX, swimming and there’s probably some others I've forgotten. The thing about me is that I will try the thing, at least once, and I usually do enjoy the thing, at least once. I used to think running was my thing, was part of a running club for a time, ran more than a few half marathons, much to the chagrin of my shins, trained for a few fulls, much to the chagrin of my femur, and I really did think, for a time, that these were my people. I had actually found my tribe. I will admit that running did get me through some pretty dark times, but the thing I learned about runners is that once you get injured, and I would often get injured, you quite being part of that club, especially when it happens all of the time, and the other runners, the less injury prone ones, never quite understood why my legs, knees, ankles, femur would constantly give out on me.  Like maybe it was something that I was doing, not that my body was screaming that this type of exercise shouldn’t be my thing, even though the endorphin rush was next level. It hasn't just been running that has spoken to me, but yoga has as well. I actually realized the other day that I have joined a yoga studio in pretty much every city I have lived or visited for a sustained period of time. Some of the studios I have liked, some have just been mediocre at best, but it’s a practice that I have consistently found that I come back to time and time again. I remember the first time I ever tried yoga.  I was in college.  For whatever reason I had bought an MTV introduction to yoga workout video.  You remember the 90s, early 2000s workout videos don’t you?  They used to be quite the popular thing.  After my first yoga experience I was never so sore and so relaxed in all my life, which is a really weird combination when you think about it. It's important to note here that it's not just the type of exercise that dictates finding your tribe, but it's the place as well and the people that inhabit said place. I do believe that I have found my place. It helps that I have friends that attend this particular studio and we usually grab a coffee or another fun beverage after the Sunday morning class, which makes everything feel rosy and a bit more delightful.  A side note here: One of my favorite things to do is sweat out my poor decisions from the night before and then destroy most of the good work I've done with one delicious, but I know toxic, drink after the other. Some may call this self deprecating behavior, but I call it a good time. Another reason why I love this particular studio is the absence of mirrors.   Mirrors drive me into somewhat of a panic if I’m being honest.  All I can focus on is the parts of me that I hate and then I quickly spiral soon after.  I forget about the workout as my mind goes to reprimanding the person that I am with the person that I should be.  Without mirrors dictating my mood I am free to picture myself as a swan or a ballerina or a gazelle and I actually, for a moment, convince myself that I am.  But the part I think I like the most about yoga is that it starts slow and ends slow.  The older I've become the more I find that I need that reprieve.  My body, my mind, craves the slow windup and then the slow wind down instead of always hitting everything so mighty and hard. It’s nice to finally find my niche and the people that inhabit that space.  I shouldn’t be too surprised that my tribe is people who are typically granola crunching, incense burning, flowy clothes wearing, and most importantly save their judgements for the perimeters of their mind, as well as also inhabiting their own idiosyncrasies.  For example, in my studio there is an older, white haired lady who looks like she has done yoga her entire life.  I imagine she has quite the extensive garden and a golden doodle dog named Marly.  Then there’s this older man who always does his own thing.  The instructor may say to lay in savashana and he does a headstand, or when pyramid pose is called he immediately goes to downward facing dog.  You get the idea.  But my favorite is glasses wearing, probably also loves to run man. He’s as loud as he is obnoxious.  When the class is instructed to breathe, his is the breath you hear, when groans are sprinkled in unison around the room when a pose is held a second or two longer than comfortable, he has to make a witty or not so witty remark.   But it all makes everything so much more interesting. I’m lucky to also find a yoga studio in Mexico, although it's a little more intense. It too refuses to have mirrors, takes things slow before building in intensity, but I find that I'm ready for it, because I've prepared my mind, my body, for the journey. And that's what yoga really is, a journey to discover what your body can do for you to be proud of it for a time and the tribe that is included is just the added bonus.

I’m dehydrated.  I was startled to say the least when I heard the news, although there were signs. And they were signs that I chose to ignore, if you really want to know, but I'll get to that later. I went to the doctor for my yearly wellness exam.  I always feel so proud of myself when I adult appropriately.  Like I didn’t really have to go to the doctor.  I wasn’t feeling particularly bad, but I know that it’s what a responsible adult should do, and besides, once spring hits I do my “I hope I don’t have cancer or some other terrible disease” round of doctor visits. Dr. Coker came into the small exam room, looking as disheveled as ever.  Leather bracelets decorated his wrists; leather necklaces decorated his neck.  He has this rather hippie, I workout, but also enjoy a glass or two or three of bourbon every night kind of vibe. He got his medical doctoral degree in the Cayman Islands, which is really quite brilliant  Might as well go to the beach when you know you are going to be stressed. He asked me if there were any changes to my body, how I felt, so on and so forth, typical doctor questions and I sat there with a grimacing smile like I was taking some quiz that I needed to get a graded A instead of what I actually was there for: making sure I was as healthy as possible.  I did have the wherewithal to ask if I could get my blood work done.  Always a good idea, I thought but didn’t say.  Make sure everything is working behind the scenes. I do love getting my lab results back.  It reminds me of when my final exams were posted in college. My heart would always make a staccatoed beat in my chest as I waited to see if how I studied, what I studied, really paid off in the end.  Were the multitude of vitamins I took every day, and I do take quite a lot, doing their job? I thought. I waited with bated breath as I checked the website as one day led to two, then three, then four and still there was nothing.  No results. I started to get worried.  This cannot be a good sign.  A week and one day went by and I got a phone call from the doctor's office.  I looked down at my desk and knew who it was and what I had to do, but I panicked and let it go to voice mail.  Maybe I’m not cut out for this whole being an adult thing.  I immediately called the office back of course and then cursed myself when I realized what a mistake it was to not have answered in the first place.  I went down an AI rabbit hole as I struggled to talk to an actual person, which I finally did, only to be informed that they would put that I called in my file.  It's important to note that it was a Friday, the office closes after noon on Fridays.  Would I really have to go the whole weekend with thinking I’m going to die at any minute or worse yet suffer a slow and painful death ridled with some incurrable disease that only .00001 percent of people in the world have?  Is that what they were expecting me to do?  I waited and then waited some more; but no return phone call.  I even called the office back and asked. “Your return call is under review,” (whatever that means) the nice lady informed me.  I went to their app next and typed a desperate plea for the nurse to please tell me something, anything about my results.  I then scoured my email.  Did I miss something that would tell me about my results?  I searched and then searched some more. And there it was. “It’s my kidneys,” I cried to my husband on the phone.  “On a scale of six where six is the best, I’m a three.  This is terrible.  What am I going to do?  You think you would give me a kidney?” “It’s not going to come to that,” he calmly stated, which only irritated me more.  It’s easy for him to say, I thought, it’s not his body that’s failing him. But there really wasn’t anything for me to do besides down four bottles of water, one right after the other. The nurse finally did get back with me, but only after a few more panicked sessions where my brain spiraled to the worse possible case scenarios.  Death at the forefront of course mixed with a healthy dose of lots and lots of self loathing. “You are severely dehydrated,” the nurse wrote back.  “Drink lots and lots of water and will retest in six weeks.” And then I began to remember, once my brain started to calm itself down, the leg and toe cramps I’ve been experiencing at night, how I had a fever the week before and was on anti fever medication, which can cause dehydration, and the fact that I went into the sauna for 30 minutes right before the appointment. The fact still remains that I need to drink more water; we probably all do to a certain extent.  So I bought this half gallon jug.   I like that it has the time stamps to keep me on track.  I will be drinking one of these during my work day and two bottle sized waters in the morning and then my Stanley ( but not a real Stanley, it’s his wannabe bougie cousin Candy) at night.  I hope the doctor will be impressed with my results in six weeks, although I fear his head is still somewhere between the gym and the Cayman Islands, so I won’t get my hopes up for any proud nods of approval by him.  But I know my kidneys are happier and probably a bit confused as to why they are suddenly being fed with all of this water when they have been so starved for attention for so many months.  I will be better to you dear kidneys, I promise, because we have more of this life to get through and I really do mean it this time.

I don’t know if it’s that time of year (when the rain begins, it feels like it stays forever). Maybe it's the fact that I will be 45 in June and I have to add yet another cancer screening to my already lengthy list (the dreaded colonoscopy). Or perhaps it's the retirement looming with its smiling face and promises of a freedom that I have only ever dreamt about. It could even be the chemical imbalance that stays a consistent part of my everyday life. Whatever the reason, I have felt a heaviness that enjoys sitting on my chest like a chubby elephant (don't worry, it's not the heart attack feeling kind). I try to ignore the feeling, chalk it up to seasonal depression (yes, it's a thing) and think about how it feels when my feet hit the sand. How the sound of the push and pull of the ocean feels to my deprived ears and how my body reacts when the sun heats my body completely. Anyone could and should be happy in such a place and I don’t really know if it’s the sun and the necessary vitamins it provides, the ocean and the necessary peace it provides, or the fact that I’m doing what I love:  writing every day, making funny (only to me) videos and befriending people from around the world who have also discovered this little piece of paradise.  This all causes me to wonder, however, what really makes up a life anyway.  Is it the job that you go to all day every day, the coworkers that you deal with, is that what becomes your world?  And maybe for some all of that does matter.  Their lives, their very essence is tied to what they do Monday through Friday, 8 AM - 5 PM (if their lucky).  Does that make a life happy or is it family that really is the key.  Having children, seeing them grow, being involved in all the baseball, basketball, football games, the cheer and dance competitions, is that what fulfills a person?  I fear I may be an actual narcissist at heart, for none of those things fill my heart with any kind of joy.  Spending time with good friends, reading in complete silence, walking and then walking some more, but not in a middle America neighborhood, where all of the houses look exactly the same and you imagine the people who reside in them are too similar to really befriend, but a place with history, where nature becomes a character who shares the walk with you.   This to me is pieces of heaven that when put together makes my heart want to burst with gratitude that I am afforded to do such things.  Maybe not now, in this moment, as I have to deal with the rain, and people who I never truly feel get me, or if they do they don’t like what they get, which isn't really bothersome per se, but makes me feel like I’m a triangle trying to pass as a square. All of this to say, that the beach, the ocean, the open minded expats are in my future and it’s a future that I can’t wait to be a part of; I just wish I didn’t feel like I’m waiting my life away.  Waiting for the next trip, the next adventure, the next weekend when I can feel real freedom flutter a life through my hair that makes me actually feel alive again when through the week I so often feel like a robotic version of myself. I know I shouldn’t be complaining to you now because I do have so many things to look forward to, when so many others do not or maybe they don’t need those forward-thinking things to begin with.  They are content with their life as is, but I have never been one for much contentment; always preferring the next concert, the next trip, the next big thing that will make me feel lighter somehow and I can actually be my true self for a while or a fun character if I so prefer.

My husband created somewhat of a monster and I refuse to take the blame for any of it. I’ve just been an innocent bystander, minding my own business, in the evolution of myself.  I never asked him  to cook me breakfast, dinner, schedule the trips, theatre adventures, buy all the things, drive everywhere, provide me with Marriott status, and sometimes even first class eligibility.  I can’t help that I am now able to afford and even encouraged (by him mind you) to get the facials, chemical peels, botox, nails, microneedling, and loads and loads of skin care products that happen to find themselves being mailed to my address (I really don’t know how that happens, but it does nonetheless.  See I told you innocent bystander over here). But I assure you there was a time when I was single and I survived on my own.  I can do all the things, I have told him more than once as I hum the Miley Cyrus song to myself .  Because yes, I can buy my own flowers, amongst other things, and have in fact done so on more than one occasion.  I am a strong female, I remind myself, capable of doing all the things and my past singledom self has in fact done them. Then he reminds me of the state I was in when we first met.  “I would have given you a good three months before something bad happened,” he says. And this did cause me to pause.  Was I in that bad of shape?  I do have a tendency to live in a diluted version of myself sometimes.  I was living in a townhouse, one that I was incredibly proud to call home.  I had just gotten out of a toxic relationship, one where I  was renting one of the houses my then boyfriend owned. (Note: Never rent a house from a boyfriend; you are stuck in that relationship as long as you live in that house.)     So I had to move once I ended the relationship. I found a cute two bedroom, three story town home with two porches, one outside the master bedroom, and the other outside of the small dining space.  It even had a basement and since I lived in Missouri at the time, I thought such a space could potentially come in handy if there was a tornado, which there have been quite a few of.   There even was a security guard.  How safe, I thought, how very bougie of me.  It was perfect, a bit older of a building, but I had navigated the whole thing by myself, even hired the movers, so I was incredibly proud.  I soon bought some new furniture, a new TV.  I was finally living on my own terms. It probably all started when I befriended the older single lady that lived next door to me.  Our porches were about two feet from one another.  She would spend most evenings on her back porch, drinking loads of ice filled chardonnay, chain smoking, and painting.  I had somehow romanticized her lifestyle and we began to chat, which later turned to hours of gossiping sessions.  She told me about the neighbors, especially a newly single father that lived a few doors down, and the security guard that patrolled at night. “He thinks you're seducing him, ya know,” she told me once as she brought her cigarette up to her mouth.  What? I said, quite shocked.  He wasn’t even a young guy.  I think my mouth stayed agape for a good seven point three minutes as she proceeded to tell me that the guard told her that he felt I was flirting with him when I kept my light on upstairs, late at night.  “I assure you I was doing no such thing,” I said, more than a little bit offended that she would entertain the idea that I even would do such a thing.  A few days later a note was taped to my front door. “Don’t let that old lady ruin you with her gossip,” it read, “you are better than that.” And it was signed the name of that newly single father that the very lady he was warning me about, had been warning me about.  Cue the drama, cue the creepiness, cue the what the actual fuck is going on here? So, you can only imagine how I felt when my now husband asked me to move in with him.  I wasn’t really thinking of escaping (maybe it crossed my mind once, but that’s it), I was more thrilled to embark on a new adventure with this great guy, the timing just really worked to my advantage. I moved homes, states, jobs, to be with him, and it all worked out.  We had our share of growing pains of course.  My black cat Edgar gave his dog fleas, which apparently I also had, unbeknownst to me, in the basement of that townhome.  He was probably right, I think now.  I was living on a three month timeline before my world could have very well imploded, but don’t tell him that.  For all he knows, I was perfectly safe, perfectly content working three jobs, with a stalker, a less than stellar security guard and fleas in my basement.

This post is less about you helping me find a house in Mexico, sorry if that's what you were expecting, and more about telling you that we actually found a house in Mexico, or rather an apartment. It wasn’t any of the ones that were previously discussed if you were wondering.   I do feel sometimes like I rush into things, probably why I was so adament that one of those last options was the one. I find that I try to manipulate a situation so that the pendulum will swing in my favor when if I could just pause and reflect, everything will actually work out even better than what I could have imagined. But being patient can be so very hard sometimes, I say with a shrill to my voice and a puckered frown of course.  I don’t know if it’s the fact that I live in a country that insists upon rapid firing our lives away or is it because I want the newest, the best, the shiniest new thing and waiting is oh so very boring. I’ve done this with my writing.  As soon as I finished the first draft of my book I wanted someone to read it; I wanted to send it to a literary agent, editor, publisher right away instead of breathing through what I have accomplished. Evaluating the story, the characters for what they have handled and what they haven't and adjust my writing accordingly.  The same thing happens when I move into a new apartment or house, the first thing I want to do is to have it completely decorated, even if that means rushing to buy a painting or a furnishing that I may or may not be completely satisfied with, but the space is filled, I think, and that makes me feel a certain kind of way; more accomplished perhaps; more put together. I want to learn to slow down, I really do. I want to be able to take my time without that obsessive spiraling need to rush to the end, when things are finished. Why can't I enjoy the fun inbetween moments when things are being figured out. There should be more joy in the journey so that the end result feels like you accomplished something. I think my husband has that tattooed on his ribs actually. I do believe that I am getting better at the whole taking my time, Rome wasn’t built in a day, why rush it mentality.  The book that I am writing has taken me a lot longer than my previous two.  Even the few literary agents who I have just queried, I took my time in assessing if they would be a good fit for this particular book. I’ve actually decided to work on my fourth draft before I query another so that my word count is correct and there are no blaring flaws that would elicit a resounding, quick answered no.  All that to say, we did find an apartment (I know, I know, you probably thought I would never get to this part), and it's absolutely perfect.  It's directly across the street from the yoga studio I frequented and fell in love with last summer. You can actually see the sign from our living room window.  And perhaps the best part is it comes fully furnished: pictures, cutlery, plates, you name it, it’s ours. Also, there is an underground parking garage, shared pool, and an elevator. When you first walk inside there is a hallway that leads to the meat of the apartment, but before you even go that far you will stumble across the guest bedroom. I love the use of the mirrors on the left side that makes the room look way more spacious.  There is also a small dresser that is not pictured. The master bedroom sits directly to the left of the living room. I’m in love with having the chandelier in the bedroom and now I don't think my life will be complete if there isn't a chandelier in every bedroom I sleep. There is access to the balcony from the master bedroom and living room. An then there's the living room. I'm in love with the couch. And of course the kitchen, which also has a washer, dryer hookup. The apartment is a whole vibe; a vibe I can very much get behind. This place really did check all of the boxes and is move in ready.  It’s going to take everything in me to not stay in Mexico and never want to leave once the final paperwork is signed in March. Knowing that this little piece of heaven is waiting for me, will hopefully make the school year fly (something that I do wish could be fast forwarded) or perhaps it will move at a snail’s pace because I am just that excited. I see myself in a flowy darkly printed robe, fluffy slippers, stirring my very dirty vodka olive martini as I perch on the couch reading one of the books I love where all the characters are cruel and behave poorly. I’m taking applications for a name to call my new home for I really do feel like it’s more of a person than a bunch of inanimate objects who are taking residence at our expense.  Drop your thoughts in the comments, I would love to hear some ideas. Also, a big thanks to G who has been working tirelessly trying to navigate payment, the peso, the Mexican banks and a plethora of other things I know nothing about, preferring to live in a land of gum drops and chocolate than anything based in the harsh realities of the world. He really has made a dream of mine come true.

I have been in sick jail this week. It's been the kind of sick that sucks your creative juices dry.  The kind of sick that requires an IV of NyQuill to your veins.  The throat dry and rattling kind; the chilling body aches kind; the walking around bent over with a robe that whips around your bare ankles like you are forever going to be hunchbacked from this point forward kind.  The kind of sick that makes you start to question all of your life choices from the moment of your conception; it may even bleed over to questioning some of your parents' choices like why did they want to have you in the first place. When this type of sick takes over your world everything pauses and then proceeds to continue in a very Matrix quality slow motion as you reevaluate most things in that smoky haze of wakefulness and drug induced sleep.  What if this is what my life has made itself into being now? I began to wonder.  I looked at my animals, all cozily taking claim to their chosen real estate on my lap, my arm, two inches from my head (my black cat never one for overt neediness).  Is this what they feel like when they are sick? I asked myself. I have read that dogs, when not feeling well, truly believe that they will never feel better again.  They grow accustomed to the feelings of pain, of sluggishness, of disjointed displeasure and they adapt the best that they can and perhaps that is why they look so terribly pitiful with their wide sad eyes and dopey faced frowns. My husband would say I become one of those forlorn dogs when sickness comes my way.  I cease to want to adult altogether, reverting to the childlike version of myself.  He is correct of course for I really do become quite helpless.  I haven't always been this way, however.  During my first marriage and when I was single I was quite capable of taking care of myself, although he would be the first to disagree.  My first marriage I fractured my femur in both legs twice and when I was single I lived in a townhome that had fleas in the basement and I had attracted the unwanted attention of a stalker who was leaving me creepy notes on my front door, so maybe I wasn’t taking that good care of myself after all.  Fast forward to the now when all I have to do is stay in bed when I’m sick and he takes care of pretty much everything else.  He makes sure I take the appropriate amount of medicine at the appropriate amounts of time even when I turn into a churlish child and throw a mini tantrum at the thought of having to down the bitterly thick red liquid and the exessively large pills that will forever get stuck between my throat and esophagus.  (I don’t really think that’s a thing, but it does feel that way.) Maybe the real issue is that I was just not made to suffer like most, one reason I will never be child laboring, preferring to be catered to rather than the catering sort.  Should I be embarrassed by such an omission? Perhaps.  And honestly I do feel bad in the moment, but isn’t it nice sometimes to just give into what your body wants, what your body needs without feeling a certain type of way about it.  So many times I have all of these rules in places that surround my daily life ( i.e. no drinking alcohol Monday through Thursday, only diet coke on Saturdays, 60 minutes of cardio six days a week,  heavy weight training four days a week, hot yoga on Sundays, chocolate only on the weekends, writing the first draft of my blog on Wednesday, working on my book five days a week), that getting sick is a way for my body, my brain to reset and just be in the moment for awhile.   It’s quite refreshing in a way to live a few days without all of those rules that forever imprison my brain into the confines of what feels like four very sharp corners.  And maybe that’s why we get these viruses to begin with.  It’s a way for our brain to signal to the rest of our body that we need a break from life, even if it only means for a few days. I’m recovering now, so no need to be too worried about my overall health.  And I’m actually getting better before the voices in my head began to spiral too far down the rabbit hole of thinking I may have a far worse disease, potentially cancer, because isn’t that where all things lead to these days?  My brain has reset as well and my rules have been put on pause, not indefinitely, but until a new week shakes its bright glorious head in my direction.  But for now I’m going to relax, revel in the clarity that this break has afforded me, and be thankful for a body that is healthy the majority of the time.

Dear Mr. Twain: Or can I refer to you by your real name, Samuel Clemens.  I always wondered which name you preferred.  When you created the pseudonym did it help you to get into a character? Give you much needed distance between the your creations and the person who you are? I can relate to that actually. Always towing the line between the different versions of myself. Or perhaps you were never afraid to show the world your true self, the good, the bad, the controversial. I did see you speak recently, or rather it was Richard Thomas who did the speaking, but for my own imaginings I pretended that it was you.  It was the one man show entitled MARK TWAIN TONIGHT! It was developed and performed originally by another actor, Hal Holbrook Jr. in 1954. It even won him a Tony award for his efforts.  Sadly, Holbrook died in 2021, but performed the same show I saw tonight for more than 60 years.  Thomas is the only actor who has been granted permission by the Holbrook estate to revive the play and I’m really glad that he did for I saw it and loved it (sorry I’m being so redundant here; obviously you can tell that I saw and loved the play, why else would I be writing about it now). I hope you don't think my writing drivel or worse yet not worthy of your time, especially if you are reading it from another world, and if I’m being honest I don’t really blame you, but I couldn’t resist writing to you today. One of the reasons being that the world you lived in, the world I live in are not altogether that different. Unfortunately, humans have not grown all that much. We have more technology in the form of communication devices. I’m sure you would have boycotted such contraptions; called them idiotic machines that were designed to dumb an entire population of followers down; turning people into robotic versions of themselves, incapable of thinking and doing much of anything without their help.  Gone are the days of relying on common sense, you would scoff, when the answer to any question is a push of a button away.  But that’s really not even the crust of the matter. People are still hating others based on familiar, past prejudices.  If someone doesn’t look like you, sound like you, behave like you do, then there must be something wrong with said person.  And the people who are in power look pretty much the same as in your day; balding white men who think that they are quite the opposite of who and what they really are.  Men who are afraid to admit to the many blaringly obvious things; afraid that it will somehow put a hole through their already faulty armor.  It’s the same issues that Huckleberry Finn experienced although you wrote him to be an empathetic sort of person.  He had that childlike innocence to ask the hard questions; breathe into them; seek out his moral compass and realize for himself what was actually wrong and what was right. I’m rereading The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn I want you to know. I tried to find a copy of the book on one of those late night early mornings when I couldn’t sleep.  My mind racing about the world and the things the human race is doing to it and to one another.  I tiptoed out of bed thinking that surely I had a copy of your best praised work in one of my many book cases.  You can only imagine my shock when I discovered that I did not.  I had about six companies of Tom Sawyer, but not one of Huckleberry Finn.  I’m embarrassed to even call myself a fan at this point.  I promptly ordered a copy and received it the very next day (technology does have its perks after all). I had forgotten your introductory warning, but was reminded when I opened the first page. “Persons attempting to find a motive in this narrative,” you write, “will be prosecuted; persons attempting to find a moral in it will be banished; persons attempting to find a plot in it will be shot.”   I don’t altogether agree with such a warning if I’m being honest.  Or maybe you were being facetious, knowing that if you said one thing, your readers would probably do the opposite. This text does need to be taught in schools, analized, even thoroughly examined, not that it has done us any good. Do you know that many schools have wanted to ban your book?  One publishing company even reprinted your words so that the N word would be replaced with slave.  I disagree with this of course because at this time in history Huckleberry Finn grew up believing that using such a word was acceptable.  Heck, he even thought that he was going to hell for helping a slave, but he had this thing called morals (I know so shocking to hear), something that  the world has not seen enough of these days.  When Finn is given the opportunity to return the slave Jim to his owner, he finds that he “knew deep down inside of me that I would never be able to do this to Jim, and I knew that God knew I wouldn’t be able to do this. A person can’t pray a lie—I learned that” (119-120).  Finn even goes so far as to actually prefer going to hell than doing something the world has told him was the right thing because he knew it to not be so.  And this is what I am dealing with today. The government telling us one thing: fear your neighbors who look different from you because of where they are from and how they came to be instead of reveling in the facts of the why of it all. People are refusing to see that differences in cultures, differences in appearance, does not make one bad or evil, drug dealers or rapists, it makes them beautiful for the colors that they add to the world.  I don’t know why more people can’t realize this Mr. Twain?  How did you come to such a conclusion yourself all those years ago and were you prosecuted for thinking such things?  You certainly would be today, I will tell you that much. Do you think our world will ever live harmoniously or is that a pipe dream that would only make you chuckle at the rose color in my glasses, force you to take another swig of your whisky, a puff of your cigar, and proceed to go back to your writing where you can control the narrative; you can control the characters who you have made to be decent amidst the camaflauged frauds. I’m almost embarrassed to admit that I am an aspiring writer and if you were alive today I would send you some of my work in hopes that you would read my haphazard sentences, my stunted words and give me advice on how to  authentically allow myself into my created worlds and then how to formulate my thoughts into a more seamless fashion. If you’ve read this far don’t worry my rambilings has almost concluded.  The last thing I want to express to you is my thanks. Thank you for leaving behind such brilliantly written gifts; gifts that I will continue to encourage young people to read for it does such a brilliant job of showcasing a past that should never be forgotten even if it makes us shudder with embarrassment for what has been done. It is the only way for new generations to never forget what has happened so as to not repeat such atrocities, maybe that’s why today's America has gone so far off course.  We are just too afraid to admit that what our ancestors thought would Make America Great only proved a short sightedness that didn't help the country then and certainly doesn't help anyone today.

We’ve made a decision.  It's been something that we have been pondering for some time.  This summer helped and the Christmas break solidified what we already knew.  We are going to move to Mexico (Playa del Carmen specifically) full time when I retire; hopefully in the next five years, so what is the next step?  Buying an apartment; one in which we will live in the foreseeable future. At first it all seemed so very exciting. Our realtor flooded us with possible apartments, condominiums. We had our budget, are desired location, the have and have nots of what we wanted and didn't. And we have narrowed the list down significantly, but the more I think about it, the more daunting such a task is quickly becomming. What if our investment falls flat? What if the area that we purchase significantly declines over the next few years? What if there are hidden damages that we are obvliously unaware? I know there are risks to most good things in life but this week I've been feeling like I’m riding a mini roller coaster, one that doesn’t make you too terribly dizzy, but still causes quite a bit of anxiety, maybe even a bit of nausea. So, with all that in mind I thought I would show you the contenders for places that could potentially be our home at some point. It is to be noted that the downtown area, where we are looking, in Playa del Carmen is not very large.  Literally a good 20 minute walk can get you to most places, so location for me is not a make it or break it. All options are two bedrooms. And I have named them based on how they feel to me. Option #1: The Hacienda I love this option for many reasons.  It's so authentically Mexican in style and personality.  I mean, just look at the bathrooms.  Then there's the large porch that you can enter from the living room and the master bedroom. It also has a shared pool and rooftop (although it's devoid of any furniture but you do have a view). And you have your own laundy room in the apartment itself. The location is only a few blocks from the beach.  You can actually see the ocean from the main balcony. The downsides: It is unfurnished, which can be a good thing for we will have the opportunity to pick out our own stylized furniture, however, it will not be move in ready. Also, the neighborhood itself.  Right now it'a fine, but has the potential to become more run down if the other apartments do not maintain or improve their situation. The bohemian in me sees myself floating around barefoot in a gold flowy dress, wine glass and book occupying each hand until I land on that beautiful porch. Option #2: ANAH Penthouse (THE WINDOW) The positives: private rooftop with hot tub, fully furnished, shared rooftop pool, and free yoga classes on Monday and Wednesdays. The negatives: There are no balconies attached to the downstairs, a bit further from the beach, no laundry room in the apartment or on the premise (or at least it wasn't listed in the description), the most expensive of the three, and the highest maintenace price of them all. But this does speak to my bougier side. I can see myself in a robe, one of those silky situations that has bell sleeves and is dark green in color; a very dirty vodka martini in hand as I watch the sunset out that window. Then…. Option #3: The Wildcard It’s smaller, but priced well, shared pool, furnished….no laundry unit in the apartment or on the premise that I can tell. But it has character. I would definately get rid of of the small table and chairs and expand the living room. The porch stretches from the living room to the master bedroom. I can of course see myself here as well. A cocunut rum and coke light swirling in my glass as I swing on the hammock like some sort of exotic monkey. So, dear reader, you can see my dilemma. Three viable options and I can see parts of myself living in each property. It is possible that we will find a fourth or maybe even fifth option, but for now these possibilties are the top contenders. We are lucky to have family that live near the area, so they have been visiting the properties for us. But... would love to hear your opinions, thoughts. Where should our future home be in Playa del Carmen, I’m interested to know what you think. Drop it in the comments if you feel so inclined.

I have grown used to trying new things over the course of this blog.  And if you have read up to this point you know how I have had my struggles.  Navigating solo in Mexico City being one; forcing myself to join a yoga studio in Playa del Carmen being two; continuing my self care journey throughout the summer in another country being three, and expanding my tattoo being yet another.  Parts of me have questioned the why in all of this.  Why am I doing the hard things when there's comfort around every corner? Why do I insist upon putting the awkward girl in situations that will only make her and the situation more awkward? It's possible that I like to feel accomplished, even if my accomplishments are not really a thing for some. But does it ever get easier? The short answer is yes it does.  You would think going to the thing would be the hardest part, but it’s not.  The hardest part is when you show up to said thing, make short clipped introductions if that is needed and then you wait while people around you share hugs, laughs, inside jokes and you find yourself grimacing out a smile or two.  Trying to pretend that you are in fact part of all that warmth, but you know that you aren't and you feel it and you’re pretty sure that they feel it too.   I have gotten used to these feelings of mine and now instead of running back to the safety of my shell, I sit in it.  Allow my brain to do what it does best: ridicule me, tell me how I’m not good enough, no one wants to be my friend, etc.,etc.  The list of negatives can be quite lengthy, quite daunting.  But you know what?  I’m always surprised when I have finished the thing that I have most dreaded because I did something at the end of the day that my silly brain was trying to talk me out of. This week's challenge was taking pole dancing classes.  Now reader, I am not a dancer, have never been a dancer.  I am not coordinated or balanced in any shape or form, but I love a good workout and the owner of this particular studio is a friend of mine. “When are you going to take one of my classes?” She would often ask in her slight southern lilt that was unequivocally her own. I would him and haw around it, knowing that I’m not going to be good at pole dancing.  I have enough trouble walking down the street without tripping or falling. But  when she asked me again over a few glasses of wine, I found myself agreeing that, yes, I should take her classes.  I think I can do most things when I’m on my second glass of wine. I showed up at her studio to take the 12:30 AM class on a random Saturday and I was nervous of course, but not as bad as I thought that I would be. When I thought about this I realized there was probably two reasons why I wasn’t as nervous: One, I had taken an introductory pole class before Christmas and two, I knew the instructor of the class.  So, I wouldn’t have to stand awkwardly in the back and envy the friendships these women all had and want to ask them how can I be included in their club? The cute little studio. The Diva Dive doesn’t just offer pole dancing classes, but lyra, silks, ariel yoga, as well as pilates and ballet.  It has been open since 2013 and is the first pole and aerial fitness studio in the area.  Sally has been teaching such classes for over 20 years. She actually was a classically trained ballet dancer for over three decades and she most definitely looks the part.  Fun fact: she joined the circus as a teen and I think that’s perhaps the coolest thing a person can do. But, you can only imagine my trepidation and why I didn’t really think I would be a good fit for such classes.  I love Sally, but one look at her abs made me want to swear off fried foods and chocolate forever.   I walked into the studio and was relieved that her smiling face was the first one that I saw. And then another girl, Samantha, who she had introduced me to earlier, helped get my station set up.  This was a Pole Conditioning class for level 2-4 students and I am most definitely level two, although once the class began I wondered if I shouldn’t have repeated the level one class. The first part started simple enough.  A few weighted arm exercises, push ups, nothing too extreme or outside my wheel house, but that was only the beginning.  She soon began to teach the class a variety of spins and I felt like the problem student; the one who is constantly not getting it.  How do I put my left ankle past my right one and then my hands to swing in the opposite direction of everything?  I think I asked her to repeat the sequence 45 times, or at least that's how it felt in my head.  I watched as she beautifully spun, doll-like, around the pole, arms outstretched, smile brightening her face into a glow.  She was constantly telling me to look at myself in the mirror for that would really help, but did I really want to look at the girl with the too long grayish cream short set (they were once white, but had an unfortunate non separating the clothes episode), lift her 5 foot 8 frame around a pole, with what I can only imagine was a face that had a tongue sticking out of it?  I think not. “Did you have fun?” G asked when he picked me up a few hours later. And I found myself saying that I did, because it was the truth. Unlike many fitness classes I have taken in my life the women at this studio went out of their way to welcome me. Many even encouraged me specifically to not give up; everyone’s first few times are the same they said. I was also impressed with Sally’s teaching.  She definitely has a knack for making everyone feel comfortable, targeting the ones who need the extra help without making them feel bad about it. I went back again to the Monday night class and have never been so sore in all of my life, but with Sally’s guidance was able to do a stunt that I never thought I would be able to do.  I realize that most of my thinking about how I look and feel, especially when I do something where a lot of my body is showing, takes place in my head.  Something that I have tried to overcome throughout my life, probably going back to as far as the first grade when I walked into the classroom and didn’t know anyone and felt the awkwardness wash over me like a too wet blanket, one in which I wanted to hide behind.  But what good would that really do at the end of the day?  Why be alive if all you want to do is hide from it?   I will continue to persevere if you were wondering, something that I feel sometimes is my superpower, and I am going to include these pole classes into my weekly workout regiment from now on because I can use more woman empowerment, more times to feel sexier, more attune to my own body, the beauty in it, the strength for what it can do for me.  But even if I took the physical fitness part out of the equation (yes, my abs, legs, arms are still screaming at me) how it helped with my mental fitness as a woman who is constantly trying to feel better about herself is something that I feel all women can really benefit.

I dread going back to school after holiday break.  If you don’t already know I’m a high school librarian. I've been in education for 20 years now; I know I can't believe it too.  It’s a something that I should be more thrilled about, but at this point in my life I’ve allowed my cynicism towards education to take over my once rose colored glasses.  Actually, if I’m being completely honest the rose coloring stayed rosy for probably one point two minutes before they quickly clouded over to the reality of the situation.  I soon realized that being an educator is less about teaching and more about counseling, providing food services, clothing, school supplies, and of course what so often feels like the most underpaid baby sitting service. But I digress… The holiday break is a happy time for so many, but there are the students who dread such things because this is when they have to spend time with a family that doesn't provide much of anything for them. Then there are the stories that inevitably come my way, told from students who have no one else to talk to or who don’t understand that there are certain things that just should never be shared and that is sad, but it’s the reality of our world and the kids that have to grow up in it. I currently have one student in particular who likes to frequent the library on a daily basis.  He smells badly most days, has the mental maturity of perhaps a four year old, overshares about his personal hygiene and life, so what happened next should have not been that surprising. He came up to the circulation desk and very matter of factly told me and my fellow librarians that his mother died over break.  We were all taken aback by such an announcement, but one look in his eyes only revealed a blankness that didn’t hold much hurt or pain.  He then proceeded to take out his phone, wanted to show us his mother on her last days in the hospital, and when she had already passed away.  When he asked if I wanted to see said pictures, my head was screaming at me to say no, of course not, who would actually want to see such a thing as that on the first day back from Mexico no less, and it wasn't even nine o'clock, but he needed to share, like so many do, and so I found myself nodding my head slightly up and down as he scrolled through each picture. “She was an organ donor,” he said. “That’s great,” we all replied, voices rising in pitch. “But her organs were all dead.” “Oh,” we gasped. “It was the thought that counts,” my coworker replied, not really knowing what else to say. A part of me wanted to chuckle as I looked at our individual  facial expressions.  Sympathy with a slight horror traced lines on our faces, which was in such contrast to his face. He was speaking like he was telling us about the weather or what he had eaten for lunch instead of a life changing moment in any person’s life.  I’ve been told the loss of a parent stays with you for always.  It may dim in pain at times, but it will never completely go away. I began to really think about why he lacked the appropriate emotion for such a life changing event.  His inability to see the change to his future.  His complete ignorance that surrounded his situation and if that is actually better in the end?  If you do not realize your pain or are too ignorant to grasp it, could it actually be a good thing?  The sharpness of the world would probably not hurt quite so much.  Your feelings would be muted as you walk around being blissfully unaware of what life can do for you and what it can’t. I was reminded of the short story,  Flowers for Algernon .  When I taught eighth grade this story  was part of the curriculum.  It centers around the character Charlie.  Charlie has intellectual disabilities and is offered an opportunity of a lifetime. He undergoes an experimental surgery that will make him intelligent.  A mouse named Algernon also goes through the same procedure.  At first both subjects prove the surgery to be a successful one.  Charlie soon realizes that his friends, or the ones who he thought were his friends, were actually making fun of him the whole time.  He becomes quite isolated after that as his brain becomes smarter and smarter until his intelligence eventually begins to decline.   Would Charlie have been better off, is the question I posed to my eighth graders, if he had never had that intelligence, the knowledge of how cruel the real world can be.  The world is terrible, there’s no denying it, but would it be better to not know all of that terribleness, to not feel it so deeply?  It’s a wonderful short story that was later expanded into a novel.  I would recommend the short story version if you are so inclined. A part of me does think that ignorance can be blissful and some would say, people who really know me, that I choose to live my life blissfully.  Rarely turning to the news, but rather living a life with my head in a book, in my own writing, in reality television then anything of real substance.  I do believe that is better in a way because a life of true knowledge can potentially lead to a lot of negativity for what is understood.   I wish I could fix the world, I really do, but I know that I can’t, not really.  There is just too much evilness out there and at times it seems so very overwhelming.  But what I can do is give the students of the world a reprieve by opening a space filled with books that can take them away from their life for a while, provide a listening ear as they tell me their stories, and hopefully this will be enough to live a life that I am proud of.

It’s my favorite type of humor…the self-deprecating sort.  It may hit a little too close to home at times, the truth being hidden, perhaps even buried between a kind of reality and an imaginative one.   The types of people that don’t take themselves too seriously are the ones I enjoy the most.  They can make fun of the one thing or the many that bothers them about themselves.  The time they fell up the stairs because they got too distracted by the air, wind, or just people in general.  Or the time an entire day was spent with spinach shoved between their front two teeth and the day of course was one of those important jam packed ones with evaluations, interviews or perhaps even a date. Or maybe it’s just the person who I am that likes to surround herself with others who are similiar.  I’m the one who will always mispronounce the word, wear the sports bra backwards, get the stain on any article of clothing including a book, iPad, purse, hand, foot…you get the idea.  It all makes for good fodder once the embarrassment has healed somewhere between yesterday and today, but when is it all enough? I ask myself all of this because I have trouble embracing the person who I am on all the days that end with the letter y.  I don’t know where it comes from, although I have my suspicions. I began to research about this idea of one person being a certain way when another is not and there have been studies done about such things, mainly looking at twins.  The Minnesota Study of Twins Reared Apart is one that comes to mind. They took identical twins separated at birth, and studied them throughout their lives. It was revealed that they did share surprising similarities, even when raised apart. But it was also found that they experienced significant differences.  I briefly read about other studies and they all had the same conclusion.  Yes, genetics do play a huge part in the forming of a personality, how you see yourself in the world, but so do friends you meet, an illness that you may have had, slight parental differences. But all that still does not answer my question. As long as I can remember I have never felt completely enough in my own skin.  Always focusing on what I didn’t have, instead of embracing who I was and loving myself for it.  My sister, on the other hand, raised virtually the same way, never seemed to have much of a problem in this particular area.  Being the one to accept each compliment with a demur look that said, “Thank you very much, but I already know how wonderful I look.” All of this brings me to the start of a new year.  A reflection, a hope that maybe one day I will grow past what I can never change about myself: the too large belly, too long forehead, hair that grows at a snail's pace, fingers that are chubby, speech that is awkward, introvertness that is crippling, a brain that refuses to react how I wish that it would, and instead walk a bit taller, more relaxed with a brow that attractively arches and believe, really and truly believe that I am that person who stops a room with just one look, one word. I always have these grand ambitions to reinvent myself, but is that really necessary?  Maybe the person who I am is enough and I don’t have to revert to different characterizations.  I can actually hold onto the confidence that always feels like it’s slipping through my fingers like some sort of devilish fish.  Believing is half the battle I often tell myself; faking it is as well, but you know how I feel about faking shit.  I believe in authenticity, even though that’s coming from a person who prefers her characters over her own self, so maybe authenticity is slightly over rated. But I will tell you one thing that I am going to promise myself in the new year.  People that do not serve my narrative do not deserve to be around me.  My time, my conversations, my person is something that is deserving and if it’s not honored, then I’m not here for it.  So the thing I am doing in 2026 is trimming the fat from my life. Only adding the meaty fulfilling sustenance that makes me feel worthier, happier. And if that means I disappear for awhile, prefer the company of the people that really get me, my two cats, one dog, my books, my thoughts lost somewhere between my brain and the computer screen, and let’s not forget my multi step skin care routine that has now become an obsessive habit than so be it because that is unapologetically me.