Okay, I’ve been staring at this damn ocean for three days straight now and I have yet to see ONE whale. What the heck, whales? Why you gotta be all hiding and stuff? Six trillion dolphins, a squadron of marauding pelicans and something that was either a shark or a log cunningly disguised as a shark and NO whales. No one likes a diva, whales.
Plus it’s taken time away from my vital Shoe Shopping In Mexico project, which, hand to God involved this exchange:
Me:”So where would I find the closest thing to a Neiman Marcus here?”
Hotel Developer, laughing hollowly into my bosoms “…Sears.”
I’m looking for shoes because despite being assured I could wear heels to meet Hot Latin Boy’s mother, now apparently that isn’t such a great idea. Whatever. Normally I would just wear heels anyway, but recently I’ve started feeling a bit odd standing a foot over both the hoi and a vast majority of the polloi as well.
I don’t feel weird being fat. I’m certainly not the only fattyfattytwobyfour (or whatever it is in metric) in Baja, but it just seems like I’m built on an entirely separate scale and it’s disarming.
Speaking of disarming, some of the fellas from Hot Latin Boy’s club took their assorted wives and girlfriends out to Puerto Nuevo for lobster last night and on the way back we had to stop through a military checkpoint. I’d taken off my shoes so had to shimmy back into five inches of kid suede while a man whose machine gun was nearly as big as he was –at about 4’11”– poked and prodded through my personal belongings, including a bag containing my *ahem* Lady’s Companion. AWKWARD.
I can’t be the only one who’s had this experience –the feeling tall part, not the battery operated gentleman caller witnessed by a short Mexican dude with a fully automatic weapon the size of a donkey part (heh. donkey part.)– so, how long does it last? I’m rarely abashed or even daunted, but any words of wisdom from those who have passed (being sure to watch your head on the door jamb) before.