Oh, Mexico

I slipped off my socks and sneakers and slid on my flip flops. We were the only ones in the van, waiting for two other couples. Our hotel would be the first stop, and we were already four hours late thanks to a mechanical problem with the aircraft. But hey, we arrived safely, the weather was divine, and I was minutes away from having a cold drink in my hand and hot pink painted toes in the sand. The driver passed around a bottle of añejo (extra aged) Tequila and some little plastic shot glasses. Because I couldn't help myself I joined him in exalting the virtues of sipping aged Tequila like a brandy or fine whisky. As the other passengers sipped, analyzed, and reverted back to discussing their intended hangover strategies involving, most likely, shots, I slumped back against the seat and read road signs. Every once in a while I'd recite a word aloud as if warming up my mouth muscles which would later exert themselves in the form of verbal acrobatics and execution of my limited Spanish vocabulary.

For five days I would not check email, and leave cellular service off. No calls. No messages. Absolutely zero social media and no TV were on the menu, and I wanted no insight into any criminal monkey gaggle cluster fuck happening back in the US. I was on a beach in Mexico with books locked and loaded in my Kindle and Audible account, and I was planning my mental escape from pretty much everything. It wouldn't be hard, as I've been brain dead for weeks. This was self-care, plain and simple, for both of us.

No sooner had I seen our private balcony, complete with a large beach bed, and heard wind shoving the palm trees above our outdoor shower, had I run out of oohs, aahs, and superlatives. It was dinner time, we were starving, and we could smell smoke and roasted pork from our balcony. Yes, I've seen phones in the toilet before. Muchos gracias.

Every day thereafter we chose our spots, slathered on the sunscreen, read, dozed, listened to books, walked barefoot on pure white sands (Maroma, one of the world's best beaches, BTW), sampled cocktails, and delighted over fresh fruits. Every day I couldn't believe how relaxed I was, how quiet the resort was, how there seemed to be enough of everything - with the glaring exception of time, of course. The hammocks were never full, there was never a wait for anything, really. Overcrowded resorts and noisy party ships are not my thing, and we believed we finally found that sliver of proverbial paradise that warranted a return as long as it didn't turn touristy and tacky. To add to the charm three geckos hung out on our balcony ceiling every evening. I named them. Shut up.

I'd like to say I was ready to put on a bra get back to the grind and finish writing my next show, but that's not the case. We landed with less than 24 hours before a blizzard was supposed to descend upon us, complete with 70 MPH wind gusts and potential power outages. I posted one picture, answered one email, cooked some pasta, and opened a bottle of wine. Afterwards we had barely enough energy to unpack, charge batteries and emergency devices in advance of the pending winter weather assault, start some laundry, and slink off to bed. It's one thing to return from a dreamy vacation, it's another to return to the dooming reality of a hopefully over-hyped major weather event.

So today, as I reason with my resistance to reality, sip my over-frothed cappuccino, slide into some emails, dick around on social media, and occasionally glance out at the snow piling up outside, I share my favorite place south of the border - on "the fun side of the wall" as my friend wrote this morning. Meanwhile, I shall reacquaint myself with things like makeup, socks, and the notable lack of geckos.

Oh, and my husband came home from work early due to the storm delivering the predicted punch. We now have a hot date with the fireplace, some booze, and a giant jig saw puzzle.

Peace, love, and a well-stocked bar ~