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

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

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

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

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

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

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.