Heat, Sweat + A Limonada

At this moment, on a sweltering hot day, I am drinking a limonada at a cafe on a terrace in Oaxaca, Mexico. I should be happy.  My class was cancelled, but I’m annoyed. Mountains are hugging me, music is playing, lush green trees are touching the sky - promising shade and a breeze to those walking below. But a dopey Englishman is speaking loudly on his phone and it’s mixing with, actually, overpowering Linda Guajira as it plays on the speakers. The Englishman has a vast selection of horribly placed tattoos. Bad design reminds me of my time working at MTV. All I can do right now is critique this man’s skin, analyze his poor tattoo placement and questionable font choices for the typographic ones. I’m also wondering when was the last time he might have washed his hair. 

I’m being mean because I’m upset. I’m angry because my class was cancelled and I spent 3 hours preparing for it, and I’ve been working on a piece of writing and I deleted it by accident. I’ve now been trying to recover it for 90 minutes and it’s officially gone, and very part of me is sweating. I feel the aggravation seeping out from underneath my breasts and hairline, armpits and between my inner thighs. The back of my knees. My neck. The back of my neck has never sweat so much. The creases of my elbows. Sexy, right? Sometimes sweat is sexy, but this is not one of those times. I feel the aggravation seeping out from underneath my breasts and hairline, armpits and between my inner thighs. The back of my knees. My neck. The back of my neck has never sweat so much. The creases of my elbows. Sexy, right? Sometimes sweat is sexy, but this is not one of those times. The heat is leaving my body, an exorcism, “Hail Mary full of grace help me not to punch this guy in the face. Holy Mary Mother of God, where the hell is my writing and why did you do this to me?”  I’m waiting for my head to spin off, my sweat wet hair, fanning out like a mop - spraying the air - so I can be free. 

The Englishman is now picking his ear with his finger and he’s taken off his sandals. I rarely ever feel mean spirited. Ok, sometimes I do, like when I’m with my girlfriends and it’s 1) safe and 2) it’s funny to say mean things. They laugh because we can be that way around one another. You know, real, flawed, fucked up and honest. 

My butt is even sweaty, and I’m tired. I’m sad. And I feel bad for making fun of some hairy, short Englishman with terrible tattoos. I will pray for forgiveness. “O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins because of thy just punishments, but most of all because they offend Thee, my God, who art all good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve with the help of thy grace to sin no more and to avoid the near occasion of sin. Amen”

Right now I cannot find the meaning or value of losing the writing.

Two nursing students joined me on the terrace. They’re spooning coffee drinks into one another’s mouths, and they just kissed before they split their torta - that they lovingly smothered in hot macha. “Estoy enamorado de tu vida. Estoy enamorado de tu amor. Y cada vez que pienso en tu dulzura. Comienza a florecer mi corazón.”  There is passion everywhere. Every day it surrounds me in the wild trees, flowers and locals. And, sadly, I can’t remember the last time I felt that kind of passion. I can’t help but feel grateful for the kissing teenagers; for helping me remember the beautiful reasons we’re here. Why we sweat. Why I write. Passion is beyond feeling this attraction; it’s about feeling alive in our skin - in our lives.

“Son dos enamorados. Que, encantados, gozan del amor. Y ríe la vida y que dice así.”