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A friend sent me an Instagram post this week that laid out the type of workout you may or may not enjoy, but probably do anyway, and what that actually has to say about your overall personality. I’ve had moments in my life where I have gravitated towards a particular type of exercise and my personality has in fact reflected my need for that activity. I used to be an avid runner and still do like to run from time to time, although now it’s more of a run/walk situation then an I’m training for a race sort of thing. If you are a runner you're probably running away from one problem or another or so the IG post claimed. I actually couldn't agree more. I found running in a particularly difficult time in my life. I was about to go through a divorce, I had changed jobs, I needed to quite literally run away from some or all of those streesors. Not really that I could, but in those early morning hours when it was just me, whatever musical anthem I had blasting my ear drums away, and the pavement, my mind was allowed the reprieve that it needed to disappear for awhile. I don't feel the need to do all of that running that my 32 year old self was prone to do. Maybe it’s because I’m in a better, more matured existence, or maybe it’s that I’m just tired of hitting the pavement for hours upon hours, or maybe it’s because my mind is in a better place, so something with a different focus is what is needed. Thus, the practice of yoga has been my thing. Now I have been a yogi on and off for years, but currently I have placed more of a focus on it becomming an actual practice. It’s not surprising that the post reads that yogis are anxious but bendy people, for that really does describe me the older that I have become, however the whole bendy thing is a work in progress. Why is it that now that I’m in my 40s I have a plethora of new illnesses, new aches, pains, just things in general that keeps me up at night worried that at any moment I’m going to fall victim to some new disease. And don’t even get me started on the tightened vice that painfully squeezes aroung my heart when I think about the fact that my youth is something that I can barely even remember and have I actually done anything that I set out to do when the world seemed to be so much more carefree and loveable. I also enjoy pilates, but do not necessarily agree that I am a control freak with good posture. Although I have looked around the pilates studio a few times and would agree that that is perhaps a very accurate description for the majority of people that make up that space. I do spinning as well, but it's in the comforts of my own home. Thank goodness for Peloton and the ability to choose instructors that do not yell at me because I really can’t take the criticism. Weightlifting is a chore I force myself to do at least four times a week, not because the activity is something that I particularly enjoy, but because I know it is good for my bones, especially the older I have become. And for the record, I do not agree that I am in a committed relationship with a mirror. Half the time I hate what I see and will actually face away from said mirror and other times I think I don't look that bad in whatever workout set I have chosen to wear. I don’t know what is different between the times when I like what I see and when I don’t. I am the same person all of those times, but my brain has a way of manipulating my thoughts into hating some, or most (depending on the day) parts of me. I have included the Instagram post for your viewing pleasure and you can pick out your chosen extracurricular exercise and see if it is in fact accurate to your overall personality. Please comment a yay or nay with the exercise that you enjoy participating in and if the description is in fact accurate to you.

I grew up with a father who had OCD tendencies or rather was definitely on the spectrum, but it was the 90s and you just dealt with your mental illness the best that you knew how, which was really not at all. He once had a dentist tell him to stop brushing his teeth so hard because he had literally brushed the enamel off of them. He would clean kitchen utensils, plates, so meticulously that he would break or crack them. So, yes, OCD was quite possibly a prevalent enigma in his life. And I have tendencies too, believe me I do, although if you looked at me, the state of my house, my overall personality, you would have your doubts. I decided quite a long time ago that I choose to not let a compulsion control my overall life. I’ve struggled with regimentation before and I do feel better when I follow a schedule, one that is preferably printed and placed on the refrigerator to be checked off with a smile and a happy sigh of relieved accomplishment. But it does do something to my mind, my overall well being. It’s a rabbit hole that is slippery and quite lonely when the bottom is reached and I find that all that I really have when it is all said and done is my schedule, albeit a lovely one. I thought about this as I was getting ready for our friends who are visiting from Southern California. The rooms in my house have been speaking to me, begging to be straightened, perhaps even organized. And all I could do was stare down the mess. Everything is clean, mind you just a bit unkept. Once upon a time I did care, perhaps too much, but as I’ve gotten older it takes so much brain power to do all of that caring. Or maybe it’s the fact that I know what it takes when the caring takes control and I don't like that version of myself. I want to be a swaying wild daisy and not a prickly cactus. I still have rules that I follow, they usually have to do with food and drink and exercise of course. But even when those self regulated rules are broken I don’t spiral as much as I used to. I now try to shrug my shoulders and move on with my day and not let the brokenness of said rule affect how I see and picture myself. Maybe that’s growth? Maybe that’s adulthood and all of its tired energy? Or maybe it’s the fact that I do recognize a negative tendency and have gone to great lengths to remedy the situation? Or maybe it’s that I’ve realized how short this life is for us humans and I don’t want to waste a precious second of it worrying about something that has so little consequence to so many. I really do hope our California friends do not mind a cluttered household. I made sure that they have clean sheets and clean towels of course. And besides, I would hope that they are coming to visit because of the company and not the accommodations that are offered. I really do believe the latter is at play. I am sure we will share in laughs and tequila, lots and lots of tequila, and after awhile the disorder will not be so important if order is what is indeed important for what will be remembered is the stories and the smiles and all the good times.

To be clear I did not want to go to a concert on a Tuesday, which surprisingly is very unlike me. I’m always up for a good time, especially when it's during the week. It breaks up the monotony, gives me something to look forward to when I’m facing the uphill battle to Friday. But my husband was looking forward to this particular band, although I had never heard of them before. They are called Jesse and Joy, a Mexican pop duo that was formed in 2005. They are a brother and sister team, released five studio albums and have even won an American Grammy for Best Latin Pop Album, as well as six Latin Grammy Awards in a variety of different categories. I really shouldn’t have been all that surprised when we arrived at the concert venue, right when the doors opened, and there was already a line of people waiting to get inside. And I shouldn’t have been surprised when my husband rushed us to the front to wait 40 minutes before the time the concert was set to start. And I really really shouldn’t have been surprised when the concert began at least 30 minutes from the time it was supposed to. But, I was nonetheless. My feet hurt, my legs were stiff, and I wasn’t looking forward to standing for the next two hours (when you include waiting time it was really three) when I didn’t even know one song. But the music eventually seeped into my consciousness like it so often does. (Something else I really shouldn’t have been surprised about). Mariachis were even brought to the forefront and I found myself singing along to some of those classic Mexican tunes that I did know (thanks to my husband’s family for keeping Mexican traditions alive) and when Joy began to sing Viva Mexico I found that my eyes began to actually tear up. You could blame it on the hormones of course or the fact that I was tired, but I felt a bond begin to form amongst the crowd as I stood watching, the only white person in a sea of Latinos. Everyone knew the words to songs that seemed as familiar to them as that favorite Christmss dish. Does Americans have such a thing, I couldn’t help but to think. Is there something that brings us together in such a way as this? The bond that I was feeling amongst the crowd was indeed palpable. You may say the crowd bonded together because they consisted of either first, second, third, or even fourth generation immigrants and when you grow up in a country that has let you in, but still has people in it that treat you like you are less than, you will be brought together by people who sound like you, look like you, speak like you. But, I have felt this bond amongst Mexicans before and I wasn’t even in the United States when I did. When you travel to Mexico you are met with a happy group of people who want to share their ethnicity, their culture, with a stranger. You just have to give them the time to do it. I soon forgot about my aching feet, my stiff legs, and got swept away in the joy that this music was bringing to everyone around me. My head began to move along to the music, my hips began to sway (as much as a white girls can anyway) and I found myself singing along to words I didn’t know, lyrics that I couldn’t tell you what they mean, but the melody, the harmonies, the chorus was speaking to me. And isn’t that what really good music is supposed to do at the end of the day? Unite us in some way or the other, some form or the other? It’s probably why I like it so much. Jesse and Joy did their job if their goal was to unite the crowd, if their goal was to entertain, and I will be listening to them again and again. Probably singing in my car to words that I still really don’t know, lyrics that I still couldn’t tell you what they mean, but the music tells its own story if you listen to the strum of the guitar, the beat of the drum, and the heart of the singer’s voice.

I’ve never been anyone’s first choice and if you have kept up with this blog, you should know that about me by now. Maybe it’s my own fault, preferring to stick to the shadowed corners, rather than the blinding brightness of the spotlight. But can I let you in on a little secret dear reader? I’ve secretly always wanted to be the center of attention. I maintain a hard prickly exterior so that I protect myself from disappointment when I'm not chosen first or second or third or even fourth, maybe fifth or sixth if I'm competing against a group total of twelve. I promise this post isn't about me, even though the introduction would speak to the contrary. This blog is actually dedicated to my dear black cat Edgar. The cat that didn’t want me (I know shocking) to begin with, the cat that I transplanted four times, much to his chagrin and a resentment that has been building over the years, but hasn't boiled over, yet. I found Edgar as a half starved kitten outside of a beauty salon. I had just gone through a divorce and needed a friend. So, there he was, licking his paws and placidly looking as content as a stray kitten possibly could. I bent down and made the kissy faces, the kissy sounds. He wasn't amused and instead stared me down as if to say, “You’ve got to be kidding me.” I guess it wasn’t meant to be, I thought at the time, for I have never been one to push myself onto anyone. I proceeded to enter the salon, mentioning the kitten to my stylist. She told me that he had been hanging around for the last few days. “He’s not very friendly,” I stated. And then I looked out the window. A little girl, probably no older than eight, was standing, arms held lovingly around the cat that wouldn't give me the time of a day only a moment ago. I guess he wasn't the feral, obtuse animal that I thought him to be. They say that you never find a cat, but rather they will find you and that’s how it always should be. I didn’t heed that advice of course for I took Edgar home with me and to the vet the next day (he had worms and proceeded to shart around my house all night until he got on some good medication). He did eventually warm up to me, although we had our fair share of growing pains. I think his favorite place to live was this little farm house that I was renting. The place had a rotted out tree stump in the front yard. Edgar would sit on it each morning as if it was his throne and take his daily bowel movement. He even made friends with a chipmunk and I had the privilege of seeing them play together more than a few times. No, he wasn’t torturing the small animal; the chipmunk would jump up on the front porch and wait for him. I felt like I was living a Sleeping Beauty like fairy tale. This is Edgar, enjoying the sunshine in one of his favorite spots and where he and the chipmunk would meet for their playdates. But then I had to move again, and then again several months after that, across states no less. Edgar, as you can only imagine was not pleased with my moving decisions and showed me in more ways than one. You are never supposed to introduce a cat to the outside world until they have been in the same location for at least three months, or at least that's what the internet says, but Edgar hated the indoors, and I hated to clean out his litter box, so I let him navigate the back yard thinking that we had moved so much and he has always come back to me in each and every new location, so I really thought this situation wouldn’t be any different. I was wrong of course. Edgar didn’t just disappear, he disappeared for two whole months and then to top it off, some unknown neighbor found his collar and put it in our mailbox. "He's dead,” I cried to my husband. That is the only explanation for someone doing such a thing without a call or note of explanation. But he wasn’t dead; he actually was living his best life down the street and around the corner, in the gutter. That's right, the gutter proved to be a better home than the hell hole I had moved him too, or at least that's what I thought he would have said if he knew English. It took a few tears, a few embarrassing drive by yelling his name at the top of my lungs sessions, and one mistaken identity cat capture, before I found him, lured him back to me with cans of tuna and G standing behind him with a pillow case at the ready. Edgar was perfectly fine, if you were wondering He had lost a few pounds, was pristinely clean and well groomed. Smelled a little bit like a bed of roses which confused me. He's better now, at least I think so, for he has started coming around more often. He likes to observe the neighborhood from his perch on top of our fence. We are safer knowing that he is protecting us or gathering the neighborhood gossip, none of which he shares with me. For all of his gruff exterior he has a heart of gold; he will appear whenever you need him and when the situation is the most dire. (i.e. when G’s dog died several years ago, Edgar laid by his feet until what he felt was the appropriate amount of time, two point three minutes if you were wondering). It's only taken him eleven years to finally become comfortable with me, with his family (one bougie Mexican cat, one lazy dog, and one surprised husband that has discovered he now has a farm to keep up with.) But a part of me still believes, especially when his aggressive meows are directed at me and only me each morning, that he wants me to know that I did take him away from that little girl, who was his first choice, and his poop stump, which was his second.

“Have you ever heard of the 5 AM power hour?” The beautiful red haired actress asked. She did that thing with her mouth where you could tell she wanted to smile, but was trying to hold it all back. She was sitting primly on the couch, legs crossed to one side. A television host was opposite. The host was sitting a bit too close for complete comfort, but her fans had grown quite used to her closeness and had even found it to be somewhat endearing at this point. “No I haven’t,” the host exclaimed. You could tell that she was more than a bit intrigued. “You begin at 5 AM,” the actress began. “You do 20 minutes of a light workout, then 20 minutes of journaling or meditation and then 20 minutes of learning a new skill.” “And what skill are you learning?” “Statistics,” the actress proudly exclaimed before hurriedly continuing. “The thought is that you dedicate 20 minutes to your body, 20 minutes to your mind and by that time you are so focused on the next 20 minutes that the skill learning willl be locked into your mind.” I myself had never heard of such a challenge. I’ve heard of Mark Whalberg’s five AM club where he has posted one video after another of him grunting and moaning, lifting and pushing, for the entirety of that hour and I must admit his way of getting the workout done and over is more of my speed. I used to wake up at 4:30 AM, meet my running partner at 5 AM, go for a five to six mile run before then heading to the gym to grunt and moan, lift and push, but the challenge that the actress was talking about seemed altogether different, more gentlier to the body, the mind, but still a challenge nonetheless. As school begins for me yet again, for the 21st year no less, I need something to take the disgruntlement out of my heart, my mind. It’s hard to believe that I have been in this industry for so long, especially when I still feel like that newbie teacher. I still regret falling into this path I will have you know; I still expect more from students, from their parents, although now things don’t bother me quite like they used to. But in my experience, educators as a whole are wound a bit too tight, meanwhile I have turned into - I very much don’t care about any of this because it doesn’t really matter at the end of the day - type of person. It’s not like we are curing cancer and I doubt, with how the American education system is going, passing kids along, pretending that their scores are improving when in all actuality the test has just been dumbed down beyond all recognition, cancer is going to be cured by this current generation of students, but maybe I'm wrong. I sometimes think I should start wearing a clown costume, learn how to juggle or swallow swords so that I can entertain instead of educate because that’s what the students want and by all means if the students want it, we must provide it. Needless to say, I am needing something that would quiet the negative whisperings when I get to school because teachers are not only wound too tight, they are also full of complaints. So, I have decided to embark on this 5 AM power hour, although I have to wake up around 4:30 to actually begin at 5. This is my second week actually and I’m really quite proud of myself. It has caused me to pause a bit more. Take things slower in the morning although it’s really at an ungodly hour, but I have always been a morning person so it doesn’t bother me all that much. Journaling is perhaps the hardest component. Writing for 20 minutes makes you have to dig deeper into your thoughts and force them out, but once my journal is closed I really do feel much better. Almost like my feelings are trapped between the pages of my journal and are forced to stay there like they have been put in some sort of word time out. Setting the mood helps. I light a candle, make some tea, and pretend for a moment that I’m a brilliant writer, who is reclusive, lives on top of an introverted hill, estranged from all of society. I don’t know how long I will continue with this whole power hour thing, maybe I will report back, maybe I won’t, but for now I’m enjoying the challenge and do feel powerful for accomplishing so much before the sun can even kiss the sky.

My serotonin levels have decreased the older I have become. I’m not saying that I’m not happy, because I am, very, but I can’t remember the last time I was giddy, screaming at the top of my lungs, heart elated, so full of happy energy that once erupted I found I was forced to run around in circles like some sort of rabid dog. Before I get into the why in all of that, I want to tell you about one of those core childhood memories that I visit from time to time on those days when I feel like my happiness level is just doing the bare minimum. I was probably in elementary school at the time, it was the summer. My dad knew one of the managers at the Quality Inn down the road and would often call him or her, I really couldn’t tell you for sure, to see if my sister and I and him ofcourse could use their pool to swim. My mother rarely if ever went with us. Probably because the embarrassment of such a thing if we were ever found out was just too much for her to handle and besides that, she has always been a rule follower and honestly she didn’t altogether believe my dad when he said he talked to his manager friend. My sister and I would wait with baited breath as my dad was on the phone. “Girls, we can go swimming,” he would say and then we were screaming, much to the chagrin of my mother, and running, much to the happiness of my father, before falling into a heap on the floor, legs kicking in the air, happy at our great fortune. My dad really knew such influential people, I thought. And as a kid, someone that could get you a visit to a pool, in the summer, in the middle of the day, on a random Tuesday, was on the same level as the president of the United States. My mom would roll her eyes and shake her head at our antics. Looking back on it now she was probably just as happy as we were because she got the house to herself, devoid of kids, devoid of husband, for two hours at least. I was thinking about all of this the other day and it struck me that I don’t know when I have ever been as happy as that very moment. I’ve been blissful (my wedding day), excited (any trip we embark on, especially if the ocean is involved) but to that level? I can’t remember the last time. Why is that? I can’t help but to wonder. Is it childhood that gives us that open eyed innocent excitement about such small pleasures in life and by the time adulthood overtakes our mind, our body, we are just too tired to feel much of anything at all? And then my next thought…do kids today get that excited about anything, especially the older ones? Will going to a hotel swimming pool down the road to play mermaids and Olympic quality underwater somersaults elicit such outspoken excitement as my sister and I displayed back then? I think the short answer is unfortunately no and social media is probably to blame in all of that. I didn’t know that other kids my age were jetting off to island adventures or cruises or safaris or even had their own swimming pool in their own backyard. I really don’t even remember being bothered enough to think about such a thing, but social media has forced unnecessary information upon us. Today you know what the kid in California or Europe or Idaho or even next door is doing before their parent’s do. I think that sets the bar too high for our youth. Forcing them to play the comparison game, forcing them to believe in a normalcy that is not real. Why would you get excited for something when everyone is telling you what to like and do, be and seem. It really is quite sad when you think about it. I sometimes crave the time in my life where that level of excitement existed for me. Although it would probably look strange if every time my husband told me we were going on a trip I began screaming in that shrill sort of way that all kids do, and begin to run at my highest speed before falling on the floor in a kicking heap. Although he probably would love it. I will never know if my dad really knew a manager at that Quality Inn, although I suspect that he did for a time. But I also suspect, knowing my father, that he snuck us into that particular pool, long after that manager retired or moved positions. We never did get kicked out and I don't remember worrying all that much about that particular possibility because I was too busy showing off my mermaid skills and dreaming about the time when underwater somersaults would become a real Olympic sport because let me assure you, I would have won the gold medal.

We finally got our Puerto Morelos apartment ready to airbnb. It has been a rather large undertaking to say the least, but it’s over now. Done and done and I do think it looks rather nice, but you can judge that for yourself. But now we need a property manager. Someone that can rent it out for us, managing the cleaning and turnover, making sure that everything is running how it should, etc. etc. (You think that living by the beach is so lovely until you realize how much the salt can eat away at those necessary things like small valves attached to your clothing machine, air condition, shower head.) There was one lady that came highly recommended to us. She manages about 100 properties in Puerto Morelos and has lived in the community full time since 2019. We arrived at her house which was only about 15 minutes from the beach. She lives in a gated community filled with medium to large homes, a community pool, and some condominiums. When we walked into her house I was struck by the very tall ceilings and a window that revealed a courtyard (small pool with waterfall included) that the house encircled. I immediately veered to the right. “You who, over hear,” I heard a loud voice command and of course it was coming from the opposite direction. A woman was sitting on the couch. She was very blonde and very white. Not really what I was expecting. She told us she was originally from Idaho, another surprise. Her and her husband fell in love with Puerto Morelos and wanted to retire here. They built this house, she said as she waved a flappy arm around her lush surroundings. Her voice was loud in decimal and her confidence was even louder. “After a month on the beach,” she bellowed, “I grew bored. You can only relax and veg out for so long.” That’s funny was my first thought. I have been here for two months and doing exactly that and never once got bored. I quite enjoy all of that vegging and relaxing actually. And then my second thought quickly caught up to the first. Why was that? Why can I go on long walks, take myself to coffee shops, stare out onto the ocean for two months and crave a third, a fourth, and perhaps a lifetime of only doing that. She continued to explain that she employs about 15 Mexican citizens, most of which are bilingeral. “Thank goodness for that,” she chuckled, but my attention had moved on because I was still pondering my own unboredness. And the conclusion that I came up with was that I’m a reader, a writer. I can stare into the abyss and imagine worlds far beyond my own reality. I can sit and read and be swept into one life after another until what is real slowly begins to fade into something that is altogether imaginative. I ask you, can a reader every really get bored? I suddenly felt a soft nudging on my leg. I looked down a bit startled. A tuxedo cat was nudging my fingertips with his pink little noise, begging for a pet or two. A cat person, my heart proclaimed. She had to be a good person. “You have a cat,” I said, not realizing that the conversation had moved along. She was telling us what needed to be done before our apartment could be rented. All information that I should be paying attention to. “She loves cats,” my husband quickly added. “I’ve rescued four actually, this one is just the friendliest,” she said without missing a beat or seeming to notice how out of context my outburst was. And then of course I had to launch into my own story of how I rescued a tuxedo cat from a Mexican beach a few years ago and how she is the friendliest too and I named her Fridacatlo. “I love that you're a cat person,” she said through a smile and then my part of the conversation was over and the business part began again and I was left to escape again. She's a busy type of person, I thought as I watched her explain to us her renting process. I so envy those busy people. The ones who can’t stay still, the hustlers in the world; always working on a project, always looking at what they can accomplish next. I sometimes watch them over my book and feel like a slow moving sloth in comparison or maybe their life is sped too far up and I’m the one living in the real world. One in which is more slow moving, more paced, more able to be allowed enjoyment. Will my slow moving life feel longer than there’s, I sometimes wonder. Will my slow moving life be more fulfilling than there’s? Or will I regret all the times I escaped into the confines of my own mind? I probably will never know. But what I do know is that I will never regret reading, will never regret escaping into one adventure after another, will never regret getting lost in all of those verbs, nouns, prepositions that somehow form sentences that are beautiful and stay with me even after the last page is turned. Readers will never become bored with their life because they can lead so many others, I will tell you this much, however. If you ever need to find me, you will find that my head is in a book at the beach, or on the couch, or in bed, or even at work (shhh, don't tell anyone), but don't try to talk to me until the last page is turned because I'm living somewhere else for a little while and that is perfectly fine with me.

There’s something to be said about sleepy towns. Those out of the way places that steal your heart with their familarity. Knowing the barista down the road, the bartender around the corner, the bookstore clerk across the street does something to a person, especially when you’re an introvert by nature. It eases something inside of you. Calms the overthinking mind, the anxious heart. But the town in question doesn’t just have those small town vibes, it has the ocean, the beach, and the waves that somehow regulate my central nervous system. We bought an apartment in Puerto Morelos. A small Mexican fishing village that has a population of about 19,205 residents in their town proper according to the 2020 INEGI census. But tourist young and old from all over the world flock to this small town because they really have preserved some of Mexico’s old school charm. Puerto Morelos is what Tulum wishes it had become before social media influencers got involved and people started to see dollar signs instead of what is the heart of a place. And can you really blame them? Our world is run by the cans and the can nots and a money grab is perhaps a can that refuses to be ignored. I saw a financial opportunity of my own, so, who am I to really judge. But I digress…. We bought a apartment to Airbnb and it has been quite the undertaking. I am beyond thankful for my husband who has done most of the taking while I have done most of the undering. And by that I mean walking the four small streets. Staring out at the fishing boats. Counting the waves and lounging by the pool with a book in one hand, a cold beverage in the other. I have found that life moves slower when you are so close to the ocean. My feet begin to shuffle and my breath begins to come out in slow patterns of swirls. There are two churches, three coffee shops, a plethora of pharmacies, one book store, one grocery store, and several really good restaurants, one with a Michelin Guide mention. But I don’t even think all of that is necessarily needed to make my heart forever happy with such a place. It is the out of the way streets that are empty, the other airbnbs or boutique hotels that bode unique architectural patterns, and the friendliness of the shop owners and restaurant managers. When the life that I live in the confines of my anxious mind become too difficult for me to process going to such a place straightens the often rumpled effects of the self doubt, the negative talk that so often darkens and at times overtakes the entirety of my thinking. But here, with the sea breeze lightly brushing my hair it smudges the darkness away and I am finally free of the shadows that sometimes become monsters. I have included several pictures of the town so you can see what I mean. If you are ever in this part of the world I highly recommend forgoing that over priced all inclusive resort to stay at a place that gives you a snap shot of a simpler life, where kids play soccer in the streets, not a cell phone in sight. Laughter replaces likes in their mind and hearts are held to a different level of what used to be considered happy.

You may think I am just a glutton for punishment at this point and maybe I do like experiencing a certain level of pain or maybe it’s because once you fix something about your own physicality other things seem so much easier to change. I have always been insecure about my teeth. My front row dominantly shouts to be heard whenever I smile, but unfortunately when I obtained these overbearing front teeth of mine I was running a high fever at the time and this caused some permanent discoloration. Fast forward to my adult self, where going to the dentist has become something born into my nightmares. Besides the natural discoloration, where more than one dental hygienist has taken it upon herself/himself to try to physically remove the yellow through a lot of scraping and and side eyed judgemental looks, and the fact that I love red wine, coffee, tea and all the other staining pieces of earthly heavens, my teeth have turned even more yellow. (Fun fact: I did have a nurse tell me once that the reason I always have extra plaque buildup is because my spit is sweeter than others. I didn’t really know that was a thing; I just figured it was my lack of brushing, my failed attempts at flossing, but I did like her analysis better than my own laziness). I tell you all of this to say that I decided to get a laser whitening treatment while I’m in Mexico. When I was in college I whitened my teeth, which felt more like bleaching, under a dentist’s care of course and it was excruciatingly painfully. So why, you may ask, would I want to do such a thing again. In my mind I thought that surely technology would have come up with something easier, less painful by now. I’ve seen celebrities and reality stars talk and post pictures of themselves sitting in a chair, a laser mouth guard in their mouth, sunglasses like goggles expertly placed over their eyes. Makeup flawlessly brushed, hair flawlessly blown out. Not a line of grimace seen on their faces. That is what I was envisioning and that is not at all what I go, minus the sunglassed goggles of course. I arrived for my appointment nervous, but was immediately whisked away to a room with a nurse and who I assumed was my doctor. I don’t understand why more people aren’t afraid of going to the dentist. Look at the torture devices just casually laying by my chair. The doctor spent the first 45 minutes cleaning my teeth and then the brightening treatment began. I have to say I was sweating, or at least my legs were. I’m sure my eyes expressed a level of panic, the lines in my face held in a permanent grimace. My idea of resembling the celebrities I saw was most definitely not coming to fruition. It was like I was on the verge of thinking that I would experience pain at any moment so the anticipation was making me sweat, but only on my nether regions. Why? You tell me. I had to wear a huge mouth guard, which became very uncomfortable as it dug into my gums. You can see here how attractive I really looked. I soon learned this was the least of my soon to be problems. The whole procedure would take about an hour. They placed a white strip on my upper and lower teeth and then applied this white goopy material. Once that was done I had to wait 15 minutes, where they then removed the whitening goop before replacing it with more goop. This whole process would occur four times. I only made it to the third round, with my bottom teeth radiating shoots of pain during the second one. The doctor looked at me quite sadly when he took the mouth guard and brightening grill out of my mouth, telling me that such a procedure will probably not be for any future versions of myself. I was nodding along as more of that shooting pain played a song of some sorts as it radiated from one tooth and then to the other. I would have to abide by an all white diet, he said next for at least 48 to 72 hours. White rice, white yogurt, white pasta, white vinegar, bananas were all on the list. (If you were wondering I immediately made a stop at Walmart to pick up some tequila blanco.) The rest of the day I was in pain, like feeling sorry for myself, screaming tears of anger at how stupid I could be, what if this never stops, and the worst part was that I had done it all to myself. You can be fine one moment and then a sharp pain in one tooth strikes and it seems to go straight to the root. It sent me into one howling fit after another. Through all of this I was impressed with the dental care I received and would recommend going to a dentist in Mexico, however, you may want to make sure your teeth aren’t too sensitive if you want to ever do a laser brightening treatment. A regular cleaning runs around 80 USD and this procedure plus the cleaning was 173 USD, but my husband did some negotiating on his own. The website quoted me at 250 USD. I am better today. Honestly the pain lasted less than 12 hours, with a dull ache following, which is now almost completely gone. This trip to Mexico has been an experience I have to say. It has felt like I have been around more doctors in these two months than I have in the United States over the last six. But all of this tells me that when we do eventually live in Mexico full time health care is top notch and quite affordable. Throughout all of my squealing, crying and complaining my teeth are brighter than they have ever been and this one insecurity can be held at bay for at least the time being.

We left Mexico to hop onto another adventure. How incredibly cool my inner child couldn’t help but to think What a well traveled bitch my middle child confirmed And I was they all were until we were speeding through the Cancun airport, I was confident wearing a very boho, flowy, off white shirt. My necklaces hung down my neck in a haphazard way that was very much more on the planned side. ”Girl, I love your style,” I suddenly heard. I stopped my fast paced steps. Turned around. My eyes flashed to the right and then to the left until they landed upon a blonde haired girl. Her accent was faint. She continued to compliment my shirt, my necklaces, my whole outfit and then the actual con began. Or maybe it already had, but my diluted brain was so blown away by the compliment that I refused to accept what the reality actually was. ”Try this sample,” she said as she pushed a free product package into my hands. “Do you care about fine lines or dark spots?” She said next. Her words ran together without a breath in between. Um, I thought as I glanced around to where my husband should be, but was not. He had escaped. Smart man. ”Fine lines, I guess.” I said next. Still a bit confused as to what was happening. She then shooed me to a chair. A dark haired man, single scarf thrown over one shoulder, began to touch my face with one product after another. “You have such nice skin,” he said. And I blushed. My esteem growing in leagues. I felt a tightening under the eye that he was working on. He then pushed a mirror in front of my face. ”Can’t you tell a difference,” he asked, although it wasn’t really a question. And I could actually, but when he showed me the price it was quite steep. Like 200 dollars for a small tube of what looked to be white paste and what promised to be a very temporary fix to a wrinkled face. I panicked, I will admit to that. ”I’m coming back in a few days,” I rushed to say. “I will catch you then.” ”We are a pop up shop,” he replied with a look that reeked of dismay. “We will be gone when you get back.” Although I never told him when that would be. ”I’ll check out the website.” My voice raised a few octaves. ”It’s twice as much,” he chimed, twisting his neck to one side. I finally had to shake my head no. He gave me a look that resounded in you’re dead to me and then left me alone after putting a fluttered hand into the air. I was still sitting, one under eye completely clear of wrinkles while the other one was lined and puffy. I finally made my way out of the self proclaimed pop up salon, head down, shoulders slumped. My ego diminished to ant sized. What did all that say about me, I wondered. The fact that one compliment can spiral me into such a situation. The blonde sales woman didn’t think my style was particularly unique. That was a web that she was good at spinning and I, like a bug drawn to a bright light, fell into it all. I don’t like being played. I don’t like inauthentic people. But are my feelings so low about myself that I will fall for such things, especially when I should know better. I’ve been visiting this part of the world for close to seven years. I should know when a sales person is wanting to get a person’s attention at this point. But I obviously did not. As I continued to walk through the airport I could feel my mood dip lower and then lower still as I realized a few things about myself. Why can’t I appreciate the person I am? The way I look? and dress? The way my belly lays my butt sways I don’t really know the answer and at 45 if I haven’t figured it out by now what does that make me? A loss cause? Surely not hopefully not There is still time, I think, to grow accustomed to and accept my own physicality and I hope that time comes sooner rather than later because I’m very tired of the overthinking the over doubting the over talking (that is always negative in nature) I want a moment of peace a quiet for my brain to accept to enjoy and to finally finally love the person I am

I was supposed to be born in July, perhaps even July 4th, although I would have to ask my parents for the exact date. I believe it to be July 4 and once believed these days reality is only a hop skip and a jump away. I turned 45 this year and America turns 250 (well will have already turned when you will be reading this). With the years ticking along like a clock that is midway through its battery life, I began to wonder what America and I have learned through our combined experiences. I have become more emotionally intelligent, that much I do know to be a fact. I can read the room if you will. I can tell when people are interested, or uninterested, in what I have to say. This particular skill I learned from one of my college professors. She was in her 70s when I had her in class and now has since passed, but she still lives on in my memories and the lessons that she inadvertently taught me. I remember one particular day. I was having lunch in the small bistro my university placed in the front of the school. It screamed we are so hip, so cool, although the food was just recycled from the cafeteria, but did make you feel a bit better receiving your meal on a checkered papered basket. I entered the small cafe and immediately saw her. It was awkward to say the least. I was perhaps a sophomore at the time so had already spent a great deal of time with her. Me being in several stage plays and her being head of the theatre department. ”You want to have lunch?” She asked me, much to my surprise. I have to admit I was a bit flattered. She could be intimidating, never took bull shit from anyone. I had watched her cut someone deep and then chuckle to herself, her blue eyes twinkling in delight, while the student frowned and grunted what a bitch she was. But I found myself nodding that yes, I would indeed like to have lunch with her. I don’t really remember much of the conversation although I highly doubt it was too enthralling for her. I’m sure I stuttered, put one foot or two in my mouth (hopefully not at the same time) and talked at random about my life. I would hope I asked her more questions about her life than prattling on about my own since what could a sheltered girl of 19 really offer a woman with so much life experience? However, what I do remember is after we were done eating I launched into probably another verbose story and I witnessed something as my mouth flapped its gums. Her eyes began to slide from either direction until she abruptly bid me a good day and left our table. Now, I was not done with said story. In fact, I was in the middle of a long winding sentence, but she, like the honey badger, didn’t give two shits. How terribly rude of her, you might think. But that wasn’t what I thought then and it’s most definitely not what I think now. My story was boring, probably disjointed from our conversation, and she simply did not have the time for any of it, so she left, but not before teaching me a very important lesson. Not everything you say is important or particularly funny and when you see others disengaging just stop talking. They aren’t interested and there will be no amount of improvements to your story that will make them care all that much. So, I can read the room. I know when people aren’t interested and I listen rather than incessantly flap my jaws (unless I’ve had two glasses of wine, then I’m a lost cause). But, can America say the same, I wonder? Has the U.S . read the worldly room or is it talking and talking, and then talking some more in one hope or the other that if it is louder, bolder, maybe some one will stand and listen and even perhaps agree with all of that mindless chatter? I hate to say that America has a lot more growing to do, especially in the emotional department and some back pedaling has unfortunately occurred where bloated politicians have given a mouthpiece to the ignorant, the entitled. I hope that I will continue to grow and learn and be and do and I hope that America can do the same. I do really think the World Cup is perhaps the best thing that is happening in our world right now because it’s allowing us to realize that citizens aren’t the real problem, but it’s the people with too much power who are. They delight in division and fear so that we become smaller, more pliable puppets to a show that they are the only audience to. And I for one do not want to go to such a show, even if the admission is free, because I’m not a cog in the ever growing machine. My world may be small, but it’s my world, my life, and that’s important to the one true star in the story of Elizabeth. Maybe America needs its own theatre professor to teach it a thing or two. Maybe then we can properly grow together to enhance everyone’s experience and not just our own. I wonder how my professor would react to America if she was still alive today, although I suspect she might just walk away because honestly who has time for such ignorance and maybe that’s its own little lesson.

I’ve learned a few things over the last few weeks living in Mexico. And it’s not just the living part that has me clutching to the learning curve like a southern woman does with her pearls when she witnesses something particularly scandalous. I know that in Mexico the streets are perpetually uneven, have super slick spots (when it hasn’t rained), water usage has to be somewhat planned, a wack a mole game feels badly played whenever you cross a street or drive down one, and often, very often, mosquitoes take to your blood like you’re their last meal. All of that does take some getting used to, but it’s manageable. But now that we own two properties in this part of the world, our eyes have been widely opened to how things really work in Mexico. Why am I surprised by the past events? I have no clue. I am living in a whole other country; one that operates and beats to its own little unplanned, you must go with the flow, timeliness is a suggestion, heart. And I have written about this before. Last summer when we lived here for a month. However, we were renting, not home owners, and that throws everything into a newly bright perspective. I’m sure all countries have their own idiosyncrasies, I’m sure when moving to America there are things that don’t make sense to the well traveled. Pesticides and growth hormones being one, an over abundance of weird and conflicting freedoms being another. So, Mexico. If things don’t go wrong, they are probably not right to begin with or at the very least that has been our experience thus far. Getting Internet set up felt a bit like climbing a mountain that you keep sliding down from. You may see the top at times, and you know you have to get there at some point, you just don’t know the when and the where of it all. And I can’t really help G all that much. He was at the Internet office for hours and nothing was accomplished. Then they told him they would be at our apartment in Puerto Morales between a very large gap of time, then they changed the date, then when we left to go back home (Playa del Carmen, 30 or so minutes away) they called and said that they were an hour away. When they finally showed up it took two hours for them to tell us the internet couldn’t be connected. We would have to speak to the builder who would need to make a serious change in unblocking something or other, more words I didn’t really understand even if I did speak fluent Spanish. If they would have showed up five or even three hours previously we could have spoken to the necessary people, who were still working on the building, but now it was nine at night. We were both exhausted and the one thing that needed to get accomplished was going to be pushed back yet again with the very real possibility of it not working out all together. Patience is a virtue or so they say. Maybe instead patience should be a practice like yoga or meditation. Maybe then we would have been more prepared. Then there was our air conditioning unit in the Playa apartment. It started to leak. Droplets of water fell down the walls in an annoying display of alerting us to what was wrong and wondering what, if anything we were going to do about it. My poor husband began googling the possible problems and did find a solution. Before I knew it he was taking a part the unit, undoing a tube or two before putting one end into his mouth and sucking the calcium sludge that was clogging said unit. How he has not gotten sick? I have no idea. It must have the famed steel trap of a Mexican stomach. He did grow up in Mexico City after all. However, this has all caused me to wonder how people who have grown up in Mexico feel about the intricacies in their country and how it has shaped their personality. Mexico has consistently been ranked by various polls as the friendliest country to tourists and expats. Something that I find so incredibly interesting. They should not be this happy, I sometimes think to myself, but they are. The heat be heating, the seaweed be smelling, but strangers will greet you with a Buena Dias around every turn and mis shaped pot hole. When booking an appointment, I’m so used to cutting right to the chase. Are you available for this date? How much will it be? And then every time I’m met with a good day, how are you, thanks for contacting us, and then the business at hand is explained. What causes such a jovial nature? Is it the fact that not all things come particularly that easy? The beer that takes the place of water? The tequila that flows like wine? It will perhaps all remain a mystery to me. Although I hope that their good nature runs off on me during my stay here because this is where I want to be this is where I plan to retire and eventually apply for citizenship and drink all the tequilas while chilling on the beach forever and a day.