I haven’t escaped myself. I turned up yesterday at breakfast.
My son once said that if he wanted to exercise self-control, it had to be at the grocery store because it wasn’t going happen when he got home. I feel his pain.
Yesterday morning it was the bolillos; wonderful yeasty rolls with soft centers and tough crusts reminiscent of bread in France. When my friend left, I swore I had eaten my last one. (Medium wheat allergy here!) I opened the refrigerator for breakfast. Hmm…no bananas for cereal. Hmmm…no avocado for tortillas. I headed for the little shop across the street. Hmmmm…no bananas. It was a sign. I headed straight for the bolillo shop, knowing that it was a sign. I was meant to finish the butter and jam.
I showed up again when I tortured myself mentally and physically on the way to town. After all, I had made a plan, hadn’t I? I bounced back and forth from the main road to the roast chicken vendor, back to the road, back to the fruit vendor, back to the road. It took longer than necessary to remember that my choices are my own. I can miss the pasajera to town if I’d rather buy fresh chicken or shop from the produce truck.
It took even longer to assure myself that I can wait until evening walk the beach if I’d rather drink coffee and watch the village waken in the morning And I’m free to go into town any time I want, even though everyone in town grumbles about the heat and the wearying travel in the back of a pickup and the bouncing chicken bus.
Yet even my evil twin takes a holiday,
I’m more relaxed and less driven when I’m here. I’m not happy just lying about, but it doesn’t take much…a walk to the store…a look at the beach…etc. And I’m not wakened in the mornings by a “should” list. When I think that the little kids can’t live without a “clase de arte” on my front porch, I remind myself that they do survive happily without it for eleven months of the year.
And I’m much less intense. I haven’t yet organized a lynching party for the guy across the street who is reputed to be a pedophile. I’m just alert. I’m not carrying signs up and down the street in protest to the “loteria” game played for money that includes school age children. And I may chide the children who are on my porch about dropping their trash as they finish their treats, but I don’t follow them about with a garbage bin.
But still, I’m here with me.