If there is one hard lesson I’ve learned during my extended stay in Mexico it is that sometimes you have to stop striving for perfection.
I’m the type of girl who gets my nails done every two weeks like clockwork, and wears something only once before I wash it. I spend an hour and a half getting ready each morning, and I try on at least three outfits before I walk out the door.
But in Mexico?
I haven’t made it into a nail salon in almost 4 weeks — possibly pushing five. I find myself planning outfits around my closed-toe shoe options so that I don’t obsess over my desperate need for a pedi. Unfortunately I can’t avoid looking at the nails, and it drives me nuts at least 20 times a day. I am pretty sure last night I dreamed about sitting in a massage chair, sipping on wine, and walking out with perfectly polished toes. I woke up and almost cried when it wasn’t real.
My clothes? They’re crunchy. And not from a lack of trying to wash them. See, we were given a washer from the 1970s. It has more buttons then the Millenium Falcon, but without the umph. It fails to actually dissolve the detergent, or even complete an adequate spin cycle. At the end I’m left with sopping wet clothes, Dalmatian-spotted with globs of detergent. And then — we have no dryer. I have to hang my clothes outside on a line. In a city where there is an active volcano. Which spurts sulfuric ash into the air on a regular basis. Hence, the crunchy.
On top of the horrific nails and the crunchy clothes, I have to try to actually get ready with some speed in the morning so that my poor colleague can actually make it to work on time. (Mind you we walk about 15 minutes, the whole while I’m obsessing over how to tilt my head properly so that the wind actually styles my hair rather than leaving me looking like a bedraggled border collie.)
But secretly I kinda like being forced to tone down the priss. Maybe I’ll be a little less high maintenance when I make it back to the land of mani-pedis and high efficiency washers… maybe.