The day was off to a promising start: I had an 11:15 spa appointment booked for five different services. I was going to be there a good chunk of the day, and my toes were in embarrassing shape and not at all too excited for the pedi. I left the room early enough to have breakfast, stop at the lobby, and engage in the “Hydrotherapy Ritual” available to me before my tequila massage.

I walked to the hotel lobby, loving the sunshine through the foliage and listening to Ed Sheeran in my headphones, with hopes of booking an excursion to Tulum and Coba, where I could climb the ancient Mayan pyramids in the region. There’s no line in the lobby to chat with the Senor behind the counter regarding an off-resort excursion, so within 30 seconds of my approach, he’s rattled off 148 different options for outings. I mean…there are a LOT. When he starts describing the high adventure ones, namely the zip line, I realize that my girlfriend might have an interest in this, and I should not book anything until I’ve giver her all her options…

…I must have had a look on my face though, because Senor Viaje interrupts my train of thought with “300 pounds!”. I blink myself back to consciousness and look at him blankly, and he explains “300 pounds is the weight limit for zip lining”.

MOTHER. FUCKER.

1. You’re Mexican, so I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt that you’re trying to be helpful and NOT a jackass
2. Even if that question HAD crossed my mind (which it may or may not have done) you blurting it out like that to a fat chick makes you look like a jackass
3. Even if the person with whom you are speaking is CLEARLY over the weight limit (which, btw, I am NOT) – under no circumstances should you ever answer that question unless it is verbally posed to you, or you risk looking like a jackass

Needless to say, I hightailed it out of there before I could think about it too much and get so pissed/upset that I #causeascene (this one’s for you, Kat!).

Wherever – I have my breakfast and make my way to the spa. I have a little over an hour for the hydrotherapy and I’m a little giddy about some time in the steam room. I love me a good steam room.

Checking in takes some time, but I get to the locker room where the first question I’m asked is “do you have your swimsuit?”. You idiot – of COURSE you need your swimsuit for a Hydrotherapy Ritual!!! Sadly, I did not have this mental clarity prior to that moment…as I did not have my suit. “We have a disposable one, if you’re interested Miss…?” Sure. I’ll give it a go. Besides, now I need to know what a disposable swimsuit looks like.

Turns out it’s a very unforgiving mesh set of “shorts” (that did not fit over my ass) and what appeared to be a surgical mask, but meant for my boobs. Like, the straps that fit around a surgeon’s ears were meant for me to slip over my arms and hang around my shoulders. As if that’s going to protect my girls in any imaginable way. I’d have been better off with Eve’s fig leaf. Let it suffice that I did not wear the disposable swimsuit, which in turn meant that I did not participate in half of the Ritual*, which in turn led to tears in the locker room over what a fat ass I am.

Jump ahead to another ritual, which I felt a little strange, yet I immensely enjoyed. Bless young Fernanda, my massage therapist, who I can only assume was acting as she had been directed by her employer, as she knelt before my feet and talked to me about the four elements: Fire (waving a candle over my feet), Wind (gesturing to the air around us?), Water (pouring warm water over my feet in the basin on the floor), and Earth (placing a handful of pebbles into my cupped hands). She had a whole monologue, which I’m sure she worked very hard to memorize, and she invited me to close my hands together, close my eyes, and make a wish while she rang a few notes on a mini xylophone on the floor next to her. I closed my eyes, and the first thing I could think to wish for: please let me find the strength to make the changes in my life that I need to make. She invited me to open my eyes when I was ready, and when I did they were full of tears. She had me empty the pebbles from my hands into a little sack, which she tied closed with a string, and told me that if I threw it into the ocean, my wish would come true. 

When she left me to disrobe, I took an extra minute or two to think about the unexpected emotional reaction I just had, and the motivational thought shared with my by my girlfriend the night before floated into my mind: It’s hard to eat right and exercise. It’s hard to be overweight and uncomfortable in you own skin. Pick your hard.

I don’t have any answers, and I don’t have a plan, but I know that I’m unhappy. I’ve had several miserable moments over the past three days, and this is one of the most beautiful places I’ve seen in the world. If nothing else, I can deduce that my environment will not bring me happiness, no matter how serene or breathtaking. So….I guess I have no choice but to try to find it elsewhere.

*The staff did kindly allow me use the sauna and steam room, in just a towel, which I was very grateful for. I love me a good steam room.

I booked this vacation 8 months ago, though it wasn’t until about a week ago that I started to really think about it. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to come, more that I had so much else going on each day that I didn’t have time to think about it. I kept telling myself that I had to focus on the next deliverable, the next shift at my second job, the next time commitment I had made. I do this, keep myself overly busy, and I always have. Although when I was younger I was busy because there were so many different things I wanted to be doing: cheerleading, drama club, ska shows, watching Clerks and playing UNO with Ross, softball, bowling team, shifts at the Treat ‘n Eat. Now, though, I pack my iCal mostly in an attempt – and I swear I’ll never have a more honest moment in my life when I say this – to keep my thoughts away from how unhappy I am. And to avoid thinking of him. 

I arrived in Mexico yesterday, and the weather was everything I love: sunny and blue-skied and warm. Within a couple of hours, though, the clouds rolled in and by the time I reached my resort the area was drenched with rainfall. It didn’t last too long, luckily, and it had cleared up by the time I had checked in to my hotel. Then I got to my room – maybe around 8:30? it was already dark outside – and I settled a little and looked around the one bedroom suite…and I burst into tears. 

I felt a choking loneliness wash over me and I almost crawled right into bed despite the early evening hour. I stood there thinking about how earlier that day I told my older brother that I was “done with Maryland” and that my next plan is to move to London. How could I be so naive as to think that I can pick up and move to a foreign country, when I can’t even seem to handle the prospect of a night alone in one?! Yeah, I’ve done it before, (twice actually), but I suppose I was young enough to still have hope that things would be better in the new place. Perhaps then I didn’t even know I was running from something instead of to something. 

Dredging up enough self-shame at the thought of going to bed right away, I changed my clothes and grabbed my resort map and I was off. (If nothing else, fat chicks do not skip dinner, and this one hadn’t eaten since she was on the plane.) I walked along the wooden path towards the pool, not passing anyone, occasionally slipping on the still-wet trail under my $1 Old Navy flip flops, letting my tears fall freely. It wasn’t until I came to the nearly-deserted pool and the music notes from my past reached my ears that I stopped wallowing and began to notice what was around me. The lit pool – rather, pools, and a labyrinth of them at that – were beautiful against the surrounding night. And Celia Cruz’s voice singing “no hay que llorar, que la vida en un carnaval y es mas bello vivir cantando” pulled me back to a time that will forever hold a place in my heart.

I didn’t make it to the self-proclaimed “MiniClub” (yes, that’s what the sign said. Adorable, these Mexicans.) until long after Celia stopped her raspy belting (see above comment about the labyrinth), but I was in time to hear the announcement that this was the last song of the evening; the ongoing salsa lessons were about to end. I joined in immediately – having learned to dance in the streets of Maracaibo, and later having taken about a year’s worth of ballroom dance lessons, I was not too self-conscious to dance alone.

I was euphoric for about two minutes. By the end of the song, the balls of my bare feet were torn up from the concrete and the muscles from my lower back down to my outer ankles were screaming for me to remember why I gave up the ballroom dancing to begin with. It’s a miracle I was able to hear over the scolding in my mind to pick up the sound of crashing waves nearby. I found the Caribbean…and I cried again.

…it’s been almost 24 hours, and waiting for my girlfriends to arrive has been rough. I feel guilty that I’ve been unable to ignore the loneliness and just ENJOY this place, while also knowing that in a few days I’ll be seeking a little solitude, as introverts tend to do, and I’m also feeling guilty about that. Something’s got to change in my life – maybe a boatload of somethings – but I don’t know where to begin. Running off to London is not the answer, and if I’m frank, it’s not in my budget these days either. Regardless, first things first: my girls will be walking through the door any minute now, and the fat chick’s hungry.