What Happens When I Don't Make the Cut (Richmond, VA)

Do not -- I repeat -- DO NOT ever leave me alone in my kitchen. If I am happy, angry, anxious, sad, bored, or even just slightly awake, I will eat anything and everything I find.

In no particular order and without feeling the least bit hungry, I have just consumed the following: a few rings of dried apple, a handful of cashews, almonds, walnuts and pumpkin seeds, several purple cabbage leaves and more salad dressing than they deserved, half a cup of defrosted blueberries, two cups of green tea, half a canister of whipped cream, too many purple corn chips, and an impressive chunk of Morbier (that lovely cheese with a great ash). I think I've probably also wolfed down some other stuff that I've already forgotten but which my hips and thighs will recall for months to come. This is not a recipe for success in my race to becoming the best possible me.

Had I only been able to convince my stylist to return to her salon and cut my hair, I would've taken a shower and a nap instead of cleaning out the pantry, fridge, and cabinets and filling up my cheeks as if I were a starving squirrel. I am in desperate need of a trim, but was unable to stop by the shop until I, serendipitously or un-, exited a meeting on time and close by. Alas, Donna is training to become a personal trainer, and because business was slow today, she decided to go home to study -- which sent me home to nosh.

Perhaps I can talk her into personally training me in order to help her practice and pass her exams. She'll cut off an inch or two of my locks on Saturday at nine a.m. and maybe knock off an inch from my abdomen, butt, and/or chins over the next month or two.

I might have to resort to agreeing to get my hair cut more -- and more often. Not a bad idea. If I can't win my fitness challenge by losing 20 pounds of ugly fat, maybe hair loss will give me the edge. Sure, I might end up looking (as I do when the cut is too short) like a baby dinosaur emerging from its shell, but I might emerge stronger.

Final Days (Mexico City)

On Thursday I'll be back in the States, so my goal is to pack in everything I want to do into my remaining days in Mexico. These things revolve around saying goodbye to friends, doing some last-minute shopping, dancing (no surprise), and food (no surprisier).


I'll call and, hopefully, see Miriam, Honorio, and Pedro. I'll go with Ingrid to the Sonora (witchcraft) market, and chat with her whenever we cross paths at our hotel.


I promised A. I'd pick up some tiny tiles (azulejos) for her at the Ciudadela Market. From a new shop that opened around the block from my hotel, I'll buy a small woven bag that I can tuck money, ID, and lipstick into and wear while dancing and, perhaps, some additional doos and dads. I want to purchase some CDs from a guy in the stand down the street that I can salsa, cumbia, and meringue to when I'm back at home.


On Monday and Tuesday, I'll stop by my park and take a dance lesson. I'll salsa with Alvaro, Jose, and Ismael for the last time in 2009. Juan Carlos will pick me up on Wednesday at 5:45, and we'll go to Salon Hidalgo. We'll meet Jesus and one of his pals, and among the three of them, I hope to dance my heart out and my feet off.


I'm going to hit my favorite food stands and get my fill of flor de calabaza, huitlacoche, quesadillas, vegetable tortas (think potato pancakes with cheese, but exchange the potatoes for cauliflower or broccoli), nopales, rotisserie chicken, mangos, and chilis rellenos. Grilled corn on the cob with chili, lime, and salt. Ice cream: tropical-fruit flavored or chocolate with nuts or (why not?) both. Salty, spicy snack foods. I might even indulge in some churros and thick, rich, Spanish-style hot chocolate. All this might very well undo my dance-induced weight loss, but what the heck? Mexican food in the States just doesn't taste this good.

The next four days must serve to reinforce the last six weeks, fixing them in my heart and mind, sustaining me until I return next summer.