Smack Me Up the Side of the Head

I think I´m like most ex-pats and my year (or attitude toward Mexico) tends to cycle itself through stages.  Most of the time I´m in the middle of two extremes.

• Extreme #1)  I LOVE Mexico!  I NEVER want to live ANYWHERE else!  All is sunshine and daisies and roses and rainbow farts.  
• Extreme #2)  Ohmygodgetmeoutofherenow.  My daydreams turn dark, envisioning packing up, getting a job in south Texas, and having Mario meet us on the weekends.  In Texas.  Of course.    

Now, as is the case with spectrums, I tend to spend most of my time somewhere between those two extremes.  Thank goodness.

But when I get antsy for the US, I tend to fixate on some tiny facet of life there that just has me fascinated.  A few years ago, it was the hair salon.  A number of my friends in the US have gorgeous hair.  They also have very excellent jobs.  Hence, they can afford to maintain their awesome hair. Somewhere along the line, I attributed having ¨made it¨ by being able to go to the hair salon every two months or so.  (Don´t ask.  I promise, I´m shaking my head at myself, too.)  So I swore to myself that whenever we moved to the US, I would have a regular date with a hairdresser.

Fortunately, not too many weeks passed before it dawned on me that there is a hair salon on just about every street here in Saltillo.  Sure, many are just in someone´s living room, and many give the air of staying in business simply to cater to the waitresses at VIPS.  (VIPS waitresses are required to have identical ugly haircuts.  Trust me, nobody willingly cuts their hair like that.)  But, by and large, I realized that there are a plethora of decent stylists in this city who charge a fraction of what their counterparts in the US charge.  And if my dream of having ¨made it¨ was to see a stylist regularly, it was time to get off my ass and do it.

I did.  My hair is looking ¨grown up¨ for the first time in my life.  In the end, that daydream of life in the US has turned into a point in favor for Mexico, as I´m now scandalized about the thought of paying more than 13 dollars for a decent cut and style.

Lately, the carrot-on-a-stick that´s been my Life in the US Daydream is the the thought of joining the YMCA.  Why the Y?  I can work out, AND they will watch my kids for me.  Or, I can pretend to work out and they´ll watch my kids for me.  I´m a big fan of places that watch my kids for me.

For a few years, my neighbor friends have mentioned taking Zumba classes nearby.  I like Zumba.  I´d love to go.  But what do I do with the kids?  Last week, Rosario gave me the out I was looking for--¨bring them along!  They can join the other kids there!¨

No way--there are other kids at Zumba?!?  Sweet!

So I went twice last week. The first day, there were two other kids.  They hung around and watched and my  kids just watched, too.  The next day, the other kids were not there, but my kids danced along.  Today--jackpot--the instructor´s daughter (roughly about age 6) latched onto my kids immediately and they all had a terrific time running around, playing hide-and-seek, giggling and squealing.

All for 15 pesos a class.  I´d pay that for the Y´s childwatch alone--not to mention their membership fees!

There´s nothing quite so refreshing at being smacked up the side of the head by the obvious.