Decade, the Third

Today is July 1st. My birthday month has come to an end. Yes, happy birthday to me.

I am now an entire THREE. DECADES. OLD. Yep, it was the big 3-0 for me. What an incredibly daunting yet mind-blowing sensation! People often ask "so, how does it feel?" Well, allow me to try to articulate all the ideas running through my head eloquently.

Our World's Expectations for a Thirty-Year-Old vs. Reality

1. HAVE A CAREER! You go to college, you find what you're good at, and then you make a man out of you by being successful in your field, so that when you go to your high school reunion thingy you can tell people "yeah, I work in finance" or "I work in education" or "I'm a doctor" and then when you are inducted to the hall of fame or given a life-time achievement award, they make a video montage where people say things like, "yes, ever since she was a little kid, she used to say she would be a neurosurgeon". Amazing! People cheer while simultaneously weeping because of your moving story of passion and drive.

Reality: at this point, I am lucky to have a job. You know what happened as I was writing my master degree dissertation? I said, "shit, I should have listened to my parents. Chemistry really was my thing". AFTER SIX BLOODY YEARS OF STUDYING LITERATURE YA'LL. I cannot emphasize this enough, kids: maybe your parents are right. I mean, maybe they are idiots, but if they are like mine, they are definitely right. Always. All the time. GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!!!!

2.  HAVE ECONOMIC STABILITY! By 30, everyone assumes that you have been working at least the past 5 years, so you should be able to afford expensive vacations, a nice car, pedi/manis, yoga classes, Salatta.

Reality: cheese quesadillas for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Look, STUDENT LOANS. Enough said. "But Cris, what about all those trips?" Yes, Carol, it's called Income Tax money and  "credit cards" that you will "eventually" pay off. If I sat here waiting to pay off all my debt, I would literally never do anything. Let's face it, Patrice, this blog ain't gonna pay por nada.

3.

This one is a no-brainer. The world says your twenties are the time when you get hitched. I mean, the prospects from when you're 26 to when you're 29 shrivel twice as fast as your eggs. Who wants to show up to their ten-year high school reunion looking to see if the creepy teen that used to follow you around in high school has turned into a version of Steve Carell? Nope, I didn't do that.

Reality:

"Cris, if you don't meet someone in college, it will be really hard to do it once you're out in the real world."
"Cris, you should join a young adult group where you can find a nice guy!"
"You are too picky!"
"You are too shallow!"
"You need to be more feminine!"
"Guys find you intimidating!"
"You're too much!"
"He will come when you least expect it!"
"He will come when you stop looking!"

Shush please! You are not helpful at all. Unless you are personally acquainted with Chris Evans and can somehow hypnotize him so he will marry me, you are useless to me.
Also

4. BE A MOTHER!

Once you have your career, your money, and your Jim Halpert husband, you are expected to multiply. It is part of the circle of life, young friends. "Oh, you're wrong, Cris, our modern-day gives women more options now". Ha. Ha. Ha. First, try telling that to a Mexican mother. Secondly, untrue.The reality is that in our world, everyone has to criticize the fact that you are not an omnipotent being ala Wonder Woman (the real Gal Gadot) who should have a career, money, an amazing figure, a doting husband, and perfectly behaved children that gently slipped out of your va-jay-jay because you do  underground Pilates or Aquayoga or something. The world is a lot more hypocritical now than it was when it expected women to only be wives and mothers.

Reality: "Well, I suppose you don't really have to get married... just get pregnant. I want grand-babies. Go to confession later."

5.  FOUND YOSELF!

More than anything else, you are supposed to have this unwavering, focused sense of purpose, belonging, and being. You need to have, plainly stated, your shit together. You need to know yourself, know what you want out of your life, have 5, 10, 20-year plans, and work hard to get there. Hell, you are supposed to be thinking of your retirement already. That is insane, and intense.

Reality: Look, I don't even know what I will be doing in six months... let alone five years. Every time I ask myself that I picture a huge cloud of nothing. Fog. I know myself enough to know that I have no clue of what I'm doing, and that I am taking one day at a time because that is all that my mind and soul can give at this moment.

You might be thinking, "yikes, maybe I should send her a bouquet from Edible Arrangements... she really is not great..."

Well, do send it please. I've always wanted one. But listen, I know all of this sounds rather depressing... I mean, on paper, I am one big, hot mess. It seems like I've accomplished little, have worried lots, and have messed up constantly. But, you know what? This might come as a surprised to everyone, but...

BEING THIRTY IS AMAZEBALLS.

First, I am a full-fledged dysfunctional adult! I have crazy flaws, and anxiety, and worries, and what not, yet I manage to do all the things necessary for me to survive AND a bunch more. I have a balcony full of living plants. I book trips by myself and show myself around cities. I tell people what to do nicely enough that they actually listen! I pay a crap load of bills, always on time. I COOK AMAZING FOOD without any sort of training.

Second, I feel SO YOUNG. I feel strangely rejuvenated, especially as people I love get pregnant and have babies. I am a cool aunt! It is so surreal to know people younger than you who are soon-to-be mothers, but I guess the anticipation of a new life forming has the power to infuse energy and life in those who eagerly await to meet this tiny creature face-to-face. I suppose love, in its purest sense, does that.

Third, I know myself pretty good. Good enough to know that, despite my lack of direction, despite my anxiety, despite the obscure matter that envelops my heart at times, I am actually pretty bloody great. Like... genuinely awesome. Or at least I feel that way because I am loved and accepted just the way I am by such a diverse array of people. So many people cannot be wrong, amIrite? Moreover, I am loved infinitely by my dearest friend and Creator.  So BOOM!

Of course life gets really hard (like, all the time) and many times I want to figuratively grab the entire world (particularly the male species) and shake it by the shoulders and say "REALLY? I AM AWESOME, WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?" And sometimes it can get very discouraging. But if turning 30 has done anything for me, it is to show me how much greatness there has been in the last three decades, rather than depress me about the things that never happened, that broke, that washed away.

PLUS, I AM CONVINCED, ABSOLUTELY CONVINCED THAT THIS IS MY DECADE YA'LL. Shit's gonna get gooooooooooooooooooood. Like, real good (that is assuming, of course, that there will be no World War III. If WWIII happens, then no, I think it will be horrible).

So, for those of you who are afraid of aging--stop being dumb.
For those of you who are skeptical of this broke spinster/plant lady/ deranged teacher-- you'll see.
For those of you still reading this nonsense faithfully--thank you for loving me.

Happy thirtieth, ya'll. Actually, happy thirtieth, Cris, my love. Bring on the taquitos.

Nice Guys, part 1

They. are. the. worst.

Well, first, let me make a distinction. There are, out there, some guys that we can deem as nice, genuinely nice. They are kind, respectful, considerate fellas. But, then we have the trope of the "nice guy": he's sweet, he's there for you, he's respectful, thoughtful, etc, etc etc. EXCEPT... IT IS ALL AN ACT. It's not genuine. It's a way to get what he wants. It's a way to guilt people into doing things for him or to cover up his dirty laundry, so to speak. The landmark trait of these so-called "nice guys" is that they are insincere. They lie. To get what they want. And act all nice about it. F*ckers.

"Wow, Cris, you seem to be very very angry with the world? Where is this all coming from? Just a few months ago you were writing about assholes and now you're out to get the nice ones too?"

"Shut up, skeptical reader who enjoys books about positivity. I am just denouncing the injustices of this world."

How to spot a "nice guy"?

1.  He tells you to consider dating "a nice guy who will treat you right". A.K.A. him, supposedly.
2. After showing his true colors he justifies himself with "I'm a nice guy," as if that was some form of apology.
3. Does nice things for people (girls) expecting something in return.
4. Says things like "if you were my girl, I would treat you so much better."
5. If he is in a relationship, he is "too nice" to tell you.
6. He hides his insecurities and lack of BALLS with niceties.
7. Shows the claws via passive-aggressiveness.

What makes me an authority on this, says you? Oh, if only I wasn't.

Besides the fact that I dated one (it was the absolute worst but if I stopped to tell you about it, I'd end up with an entire book the size of the last Harry Potter one), I have encountered many of these fine specimens in my 20's. But allow me to illustrate my point.

Sometime before my now botched relationship, a coworker caught my eye. He seemed kind, calm, NICE. Like a giant, sluggish panda bear. I didn't make much of it, but as the school year progressed, I found myself being around this guy quite a bit, and finding out that we had quite a bit in common.

After a few months, I was hoping that something would come out of it. He seemed invested, but I thought he was too shy to ask me out. Typical nice guy. So I figured I'd give him a bit of help, and kept dropping hints. The hints didn't work, so I started to shamelessly invite him out to hang out--first with our colleagues, then I just straight up asked if he wanted to go get a drink with me. Bravo, Cris. You strong, independent, hot woman.

"You asked him out!"
"Yes, after about four months of back and forth"
"What did he say?"

 "Oh, I can't. I want to go home and... sleep."


Nice guys: can't be straight with you. Why? Are they legitimately concerned about your emotional welfare? Or is it that in their insecurity they want to keep you at bay, but not too far, just in case?

Guess what, dudes? This jerkface had a girlfriend. The entire time.

In other words,  for six months, we spoke on a regular basis without him ever mentioning his girlfriend. I am sorry, but in my book, one actually has to TRY not to bring a significant other in conversation. Like, you have to make an effort not to talk about her? And why? Why would you not want to bring her up, eh, NICE GUY?

And don't think he actually told me. No. I found out through a very elaborate network of female coworkers interested in my well-being. So, the moment I realized he was taken, I ceased contact and only maintained a professional relationship. You know, because I try not to be an asshole and stuff.

BUT THAT IS NOT ALL, READER. PREPARE YOURSELF.

A few weeks ago, one of my work friends invited a bunch of us to his wife's birthday at a local club. Sure enough, I could not resist an opportunity to publicly humiliate myself with my signature move, "The Sprinkler", so I accepted the invitation. Because it's me we're talking about, of course this man, Mr. Nice-guy-sluggish-panda, was there. With zee gurl.

Don't think for a second that I was worried. The moment I realized this man had hid his girlfriend from me, any admiration that I felt for him dissipated. So I came into the party, nodded politely, and moved on to talk to my friends. Suddenly, I felt a strange presence approaching me.

She is making direct eye-contact with me. She stands in front of me. She gets close to my ear and whispers, "help me make a conga line".

When eloquence fails, all we can say is "what the actual f*ck is happening right now?" I had never met this woman, had never seen her, and she had no reason to speak to me, as her boyfriend did not introduce us. Why was she singling me out and why was she trying to form a conga line with me?

Wait a minute... no... it couldn't be...no, no, it can't be. Moving on.

Reader, it didn't stop there. Later on that night, after eyeing me for a while, she came back to tell me that she was going to take me out to the dance floor. I was politely declining, but guess what? Her boyfriend, a couple yards behind her, was beckoning me animatedly to go dance with her.

I managed to escape by going to the restroom, only to come back and run to the dance floor with my friends before she found me. But then... she found me. And she started dancing with us. And then my friends left me with her... great friends of mine, eh? Yeah, wonderful people.

So I was left alone dancing with this woman who, as luck would have it, danced worse than me, if that's possible. It was like a twig breaking before me.

Suddenly, a drunkard came to the rescue. A big, beautiful, brown man who was heavily intoxicated came to dance with the two of us, and she didn't seem pleased, so she drew back. Perfect. Suddenly, I was dancing with the drunk alone and having the time of my life. BUT THEN, she came back. She grabbed me by the hand and pull me away from my lovely drunk.

Look ya'll, I am not a mean-spirited person, for the most part. And when I'm being ugly, I try to control myself. But man, this lady was pushing it. First of all, we are not friends,  I don't know your name, and you're making me hella uncomfortable. So I was in the highest level of terror alert.

Train of thought:

1. I do not like you.
2. You give me the creeps.
3. Why are you touching me?
4. No, stop.
5. BITCH BYE.

I pulled away. Rudely. I took my own hand back, turned around, and walked away from her and back to my borrachito.

By now, it was all too clear:

Scenario A: This woman is mentally unstable and has found me enticing for some reason. Perhaps I remind her of her grandmother, or the person she murdered.

Scenario B: This woman was enraptured by my beauty and decided to leave her boyfriend and ask me for my hand in marriage.

Scenario C: Nice guy might not have said anything about having a girlfriend, but he certainly told her all about me. Her familiarity, the fact that she expected and almost demanded to spend time with me indicated that he had probably said something along the lines of "oh, you'll love Cristina, she's wonderful! You guys should try to be friends!"

What kind of crap is that? I asked you out, you refused with a lame excuse, and then you told your girlfriend about me? Why? In hopes of what? Ugh and gross and you are just the worst, nice guy.

A man, a real man, would have discreetly brought his girl up in conversation. A real man would have stayed with his woman that night. A real man would have introduced his girl to me, without committing any indiscretions. Whatever this dude did was shitty.

Anyway, more on this later. For now, all I can say is "STOP BEING LIKE THIS".

Magenta Sneakers

Every year for my birthday, I buy myself a nice present. This has been a tradition since I first started working, a long ten years ago. A karaoke machine. A football jersey. A fancy perfume. Last year was no exception. A few days before my birthday, I went to the best place on earth (JC Penney, obviously), and browsed around for hours until finally finding the perfect gift. When I got home, the first thing I did was to take a photo of my spanking-new, beautiful magenta Nike sneakers to send to him.  

It’s a strange thing, falling in love. Suddenly, all you ever want to do is talk to that person, even about the most mundane, silly things. You want to share your every move with him because—well, you wish you could be with him at all times. All the feelings you didn’t know you had suddenly burst out from your little stony heart, like a supernova exploding into stardust, and you become the most beautiful, iridescent, delightful cliché. It’s true, you know it, and you still don’t care. Because suddenly all things feel like they make sense and all the waiting and the loneliness and the THIRD WHEELING are a distant memory.

Ah, you know I’m pulling your leg, right? Last May was one of the most difficult times in my life. Suddenly all the promises that he had made laid broken before me, and my hope and joy had fled far away. I was trying with all my might to hold together my sandcastle as it was being viciously attacked by an imminent rise of tide, but it was only me holding onto it. I kept telling myself that he couldn’t possibly help me, because he was preoccupied with holding himself together, sorting himself out, finding himself, making sense of the convolution in his soul. I kept telling myself that if I truly loved him I needed to stay put, wait in patience, keep my thundering heart in check, prevent my blood from boiling over, scold my sense of justice for feeling offended about his actions. It wasn’t really him. It was all the ghosts, the skeletons in the closet, the monsters under the bed.

So I took the picture of the sneakers and sent it to him, like a child showing off her new toy on Christmas morning. And just like a child who finds out Santa Claus isn’t real, I sat there in disbelief as I read his response, sat there feeling the blood in my veins turn cold and the shutters of my heart closing up for winter, sat there realizing that it wasn’t about patience, or kindness, or the sheer will to keep us together. I sat there as the fact slapped me across the face:

“Why would you buy those? It’s not like you’re going to use them. Maybe you could treat yourself to some free-weights that you’ll never lift, or perhaps a bicycle you’ll never ride while you’re at it--”
“Sometimes I might go on a walk or a jog--”

“So you’re planning to? You do realize that your legs won’t spontaneously start jogging by themselves one day, right?”

Skepticism. Sarcasm. Ridicule. About a damn pair of shoes. I sat there as I realized that he didn’t love me. That whatever he thought he felt for me was not love. Because how, just how could the man that claimed to want to love me for the rest of my life, to want to make me smile every day, to want to protect me from the universe, to want to make me feel cherished, how could he go out of his way to wound me, about something so simple, when I hadn’t done anything to him, had never tried to humiliate him, embarrass him, or belittle him?

Writing this, a year after it happened, makes me rage. How could I have allowed it? Where was I—the real me—as this man was tearing me apart?  We all like to boast about being strong, independent, resilient. But in what moment should the advice “if you truly love him, accept him as he is and forgive him” not be valid anymore? When is it no longer “no one is perfect” and becomes “he’s no good for you”? For me, it was this. This was the last straw. Suddenly I wasn’t the most beautiful woman on earth. I was just a lazy couch potato, a fatass, a woman with no willpower. That was it. I might be a lazy couch potato. I’m definitely a fatass. But I am definitely not a woman with no willpower. The love I felt for him was fighting to survive, but he made sure to crush it. He drove it to the brink and then pushed it down into the void. And when it was gone, all I had was me and a pair of magenta sneakers.

A year has gone by. My magenta sneakers have walked—even jogged—hundreds of miles. The signs of wear are there: tear, upper left side, right shoe; significant scrap, tip of left shoe; dark mud stains all throughout both shoes. At first, these shoes fit too tight and they gave me the most atrocious heel blister that made me unable to wear closed-toe shoes for two weeks. But that didn't stop me from using them again. Remember what I said about my willpower, reader? He underestimated me because I let him. But, more importantly, I had underestimated myself.

 Loving him, I had borne a false cloak of holiness over my shoulders that said I needed to be patient with him and love him despite himself, and that I was going to love him into sanity, confidence, joy, healing. He knew this, and he used it as an excuse to treat me like shit. Jealousy. Insecurity. Inconsistency. Lies. Manipulation. I was supposed to love him out of all that. No, reader. A pair of magenta sneakers made me realize that I needed to love myself enough to walk away from the man I had seemingly dreamed of my entire life (he did have some good qualities, after all). But what if it meant I was going to be alone? What if it meant that no one else would come along?  

Then I will go into my closet, pull out my tennis shoes, pop them on my feet (without even having to undo the laces), and run, run until the soles are gone and my soul soars up and my heartbeat is so high that my heart bursts because I rather die the most horrific death (working out) than stay with a shell of a man who cannot love and cannot accept love. So every day, I put on my sneakers and get going, chasing after the woman I hope I’ll be once again. 

Hey at least we didn't die

like everyone else. Though hey, Mr. Trump's going to be president in a few days, so we (brown people) might count 2017 as our last year on earth.

But man, this year, eh? What an absolute shit show.

Dear 2016,

You. Broke. Me.

That's right. On more than one occasion, I, the invincible woman, the Mexican Geordie, thought that it would be better to just stay in bed, under the covers, and wait until I dehydrated to death or something like that, rather than to face you.

You, with your injustice. You, with your deceit. You, with your selfishness. You, with your darkness. With your death.

In many ways it is as if you'd killed me. Like you killed my joy, my trust, my faith, my dreams, my desire to love. In some very dark days, even my will to be alive. Because there were times when I wondered: wait, is life this? Just this? That's it? I have to do this for the rest of it? And the prospect just seemed so overwhelming and terrifying that I wanted to scream until I had no voice left.

And yeah, people are complaining because you're an asshole, 2016, and you've taken away so many wonderful people and all. But I'm complaining about all that you've taken away from me. How painful the losses of this year have been.

It hurts so much, physically, to have to continue breathing even in the moments when you can't find a single reason to do so. It is unbearable to have to watch those people whose names are knitted in the very fibers of your heart suffer and writhe in pain and despair and not be able to do anything to help them, to save them, to buy them more time.

So we humans--being humans--find it easier to cope by blaming you, a year, for being an absolute piece of shit scumbag. Pardon my language. But really, when we start thinking about it, what are we doing here? Blaming a span of 12 months? For the mistakes of others? For their betrayals? For their greed and selfishness? For our own flaws? For life being life and death being death?

Life's so damn hard. It really is. I type that as I attempt to tune out the absolutely horrifying meltdown of a pre-teen boy with autism who has been in tantrum-mode for over 24 hours now. No one can help him. No one can calm him down. I'll leave you that for a picture of helplessness. A person you love, abusing himself, abusing those around you, because he cannot help it. Life is so hard sometimes that it feels exactly like that.

Why? Why does it have to be this way, right? It's atrocious. I'm telling you this with a heart full of anguish, which is my typical state nowadays, I think.

I do not know why. I do not claim to have an understanding of God, or humanity, or even myself, to be honest. All I know is that, despite it all, 2016, somehow, quite inexplicably to me, I am still here.

Somehow, stupid year, you are dying, and I'm still alive. I am a living organism and, what's even more fantastic, I seem to be able to get up in the morning, shower, brush my teeth, and hustle. In this broken world, with this broken heart. Show up early to work. Bust my ass. Get nominated for Teacher of the Year. Encounter not-so-little dudes and dudettes who tell me they miss me and they wish they could be my students again. Answer the questions of curious will-be-Catholic children. Wash my dishes. Pay my bills. Write a baby masterpiece on this blog once in a while. Make someone spit their drink with laughter.

I've spent this year feeling so defeated and useless. Perhaps I am. God knows the only thing I was ever the best at was being a footballer. Not much since, and it's been 14 years. But heck, by pure stubbornness, by just my ridiculous pride, ego, whatever you might call it, I am still kicking around this world and working like a beast and trying. Trying to do the adult thing. Trying to do the life thing.

Then I think, just for a tad, of the people who showed kindness instead of selfishness; loyalty instead of betrayal. And I realize quickly that they're the only reason I'm still here, getting up from bed and feeding myself and bathing. The loves of my life. The ones that pick me up when I'm down, and when all fails, drag me around until I get my act together.

THE LOVE. It is so mystifying to be pierced in the heart by the affection of people who love me despite my own imperfections, who take care of me when I don't want to take care of myself anymore, who revive me with their own silliness, and sweetness, and sincerity, and bluntness. People who gave me the fuel, via memories, to keep going when all systems failed.

2016, you broke me. I felt my heart bleed dry at times. I felt anxiety crawl in the walls of my throat. I felt despair gripping my head with its claws. Yet, perhaps to spite you, perhaps because God did have some mercy of me after all, I made it. I'm making it.

And you want to know what's even more incredible than that? I swam in the Mediterranean. I made a difference in at least one child's life. I saw how wonderful I am as a girlfriend. I walked more than 20 miles on two completely blistered feet. I held my best friends in my arms unreservedly and I made sure they knew what they are to me. I wrote amazing poetry. I shopped until I dropped. I did the Running Man challenge. I ate banana off the floor for 10 bucks.

Lastly...

I literally laughed my ass off.

Can't say I'll miss you, 2016. But thank YOU, person reading this, for giving me the strength to keep going. You stay in my heart. 

Fa-la-la-la-NO

I suppose you are expecting a Christmas blog (plus the blog I promised like five months ago about the rest of my summer vacation--which I honestly do not remember very well), but instead, you are getting an angry post!

I was at JCPenney Christmas shopping (that's my store--do not judge me) and I noticed a man who kept staring at me from the other side of the shoe aisle. I knew that he was going to talk to me because his gaze was fixed on me, so I tried my best to pretend like he wasn't there (naturally). Then, of course, because men are men, he can no longer contain himself:

"Hey, how are you?"

I look up. I can see a familiar face, but I am having a hard time thinking of who this is. High school? Yes. Friend? Definitely not. Name? No clue.

"Oh hi, I hadn't recognized you!"

He comes around to shake my hand. I see his eyes traveling up and down my body. Then he says, in an animated voice:

"Wow! You got fat!"

You wish.

No, I did not punch anyone. But I think my facial expression did enough for me, because the dude tried to correct himself by saying "well, you've got a fuller figure". He then proceeded to ask me if I had children, then if I had a husband. For both of those answers in the negative, he rebutted with an almost-reproachful "But why?"

So let's break it down:

1. Insult her body.
2. Question her womanhood by being outraged that she has no children.
3. Question her adequacy as a female by being outraged that she has no husband.

And people think I'm going to end up alone. Pshhhh. This guy is a winner in that category.

Or is he? Because, chances are, there is someone, out there, pining away for this asshole. Willing to surrender her heart, her intimacy, her blood, sweat, and tears, for a man like this.

Well, I suppose I am not just writing this to let you know how my day went today. So here's my two cents. Absolutely not suitable for work. Pardon my french. Sorry, mom.


To you, oh high school guy who's name I can't even recall,

First off, go **** yourself.

Secondly, I feel truly sorry for you. I feel sorry that you didn't have anyone to teach you better. I feel sorry that women are to you just a body to produce children and be bound to a man. I feel sorry that you even considered that you had a shot at speaking to me (because, let's face it, a random man does not ask a random woman if she is married and has children for no reason) and that something was going to come out of it. I feel sorry for you as I recall your panicked face in my mind when you realized that you had screwed up your chance with me (as if you ever had one-- 15 years ago or now).

But above all, I feel sorry that you are so wrapped up in your assumptions of what a woman is that you will never be able to love one properly or make her happy. Because, whichever woman falls for you (if there is ever one) will only be an attractive body, or the bearer of a child, or a wife to satisfy your needs. She won't be worth to you anything else. You won't see her for who she is, beyond motherhood and marriage. You will not understand her. You will not support her. You will take, and take, and take.

Perhaps I'm wrong for assuming these things. But it is just so mind-boggling to me that you had the nerve to speak to a strange woman you barely know the way you did. So I can only assume that once you get to know a woman, it only gets worse. Could I safely assume that you suddenly become a vindicator of the rights of women the moment one of us earns your respect or affection?

Well, if that is the case, I still feel sorry for you. Because you shouldn't need to love a woman in order to respect her. You should just... well, shit, respect her! But what do you know? You were brought up in ignorance, in violence, in lewdness. You've grown up in a culture that teaches you not to feel, that tells you it's okay to use people, that throws pornographic images at you and orders you to knock yourself out. You were bred in the dark, pestilent bosom of sexism. Even worse, you were knit in the fiber of selfishness.

So I feel sorry for you. You are pathetic in your blindness. You are a laughingstock in your lack of respect. You are a caricature of what a man ought to be. But don't feel bad. You are most definitely not alone.

I mean, I am acutely single for a reason. The bad ones literally make me want to become a hermit. The "good" ones are riddled with insecurities, self-doubt, and the self-righteous pretentiousness of thinking that they are the best thing that could happen to you.

Which brings me to  my next point...

Dear men,

Yes, it's me again. I'm aware that we do not get along very well, mostly because you all insist on being assholes, but hear me out...

STOP BEING ASSHOLES!

It's the future already-- why am I having to tell you this??? Like, we are past the Back to the Future year. What are ya'll doing, seriously? I'm going to give you the advice (lecture) I give my male students, who are riddled by hormones and sex-crazed:

"If you wouldn't say it to your mom/sister, don't say it to her."

or

"If you wouldn't like it said to your future daughter, don't say it."

It's really bloody simple.

The moment you treat a woman like she's a) an object, b) a baby maker (also an object), or c) your own personal source of marital pleasure, you blew it. She's officially too good for you. She's out of your league.

To the good guys who feel constantly victimized by women who only "want the bad guys": grow an actual pair. Love yourselves enough to be brave to fight for the women you love and brave to retreat when said women do not want anything to do with you. Your "goody-goodyness" doesn't entitle you to anything. Again, we are not a trophy. The moment you feel like you deserve a woman, she's already too good for you. She;s out of your league.

To the few men doing what they're supposed to: I'm not going to congratulate you because it's your job. But well done. Don't get cocky.

Dear women,

Stop. Enabling. These. Assholes.

You are worth so much more than objectification. You deserve to be an absolutely adored wife. You deserve to be a proud mother. You deserve someone who practically has a meltdown over the fact that you've given them the greatest gift there is: unconditional love, a family, and offspring. Anything less than that is settling.

Of course no one is perfect. But they have to at least try. For you. Because they love you. Because you are so damn beautiful, and smart, and sweet, and fierce, and amazing. Do not settle. Even if it means renouncing to your dreams of being a wife and a mother. Do not settle.

And that is perfectly okay. 

Dear world,

I am a fat woman. I have a back roll. I have stretchmarks not caused by pregnancy. I have arms that flop like wings. I have thighs that rub until they bleed. I have a triple chin. Sometimes I have to unbutton my pants after a big meal.

I am so FUCKING beautiful.

My legs are so mightily strong.
My arms are a fortress.
My face is the sun.
My eyes sparkle like redwood in the flames.
My hair rages like a sea of waves.
My mouth's small but my voice roars.
My hands are regal and rough.
My shape is heavenly, forged in bronze.

Add to that is the fact, as all of you know, that I am incredibly funny: I make my supervisor spit her drink. I make my principal break character and go from dead-pan face to a meltdown of laughter. I make my best friend snort. Most importantly, I make myself laugh, and even laugh again when I remember what I did later on.

I am literally brilliant, the love child of two people with crazy high IQs. I, thankfully, inherited the emotional intelligence of my mother. And her charm. I suppose that also comes with the comical awkwardness courtesy of me dad. *Eye roll*

I am a force to be reckoned with. Stubborn to no end. Determined to death. Dedicated to the core. Passionate in every fiber of my being. I might be shot down (now more than ever, it feels), but I carry on, running, walking, or crawling (this last one seems like the means of moving around, so to speak, in the last couple years). Who knows, I might secretly be a gorilla or something.

I am kind. I mean, maybe not to jerk-faces who call me fat in public. But I try to give of myself. I try to remind myself to love others. I put my heart on the line for people I consider my friends. Once someone accepts me in their life, and I them, I take them up in the figurative arms of my soul, and cradle them, and then put them to sleep, "sh-sh, there, there, baby love", and then keep them in my heart forever. I swear I am not drunk. This is the best metaphor I could come up with. Creepy and stalker-ish. Hilar!

I am honest. I am a hard-worker. I am sincere. I am a nurturer. I am a fighter. I crave justice. I am brave. I am independent. I am self-sufficient. I am compassionate. I am empathetic. I am hella loyal. I'm an awesome cook. I'm a pretty decent dancer. I am creative. I am crafty. I am musical. I am a fairly good writer. I try to live up to a moral code. I am horribly flawed. I fall short all the time. I am riddled with fear and anxiety most of the time.

But I love myself.

It is so hard to love one's self.

It's easy to do it when a petty asshole calls you names in a department store because you don't give a shit about him and he is nothing to you and will always be nothing. It's easy to love yourself when you are fighting trolls on the internet because you know there's something terribly wrong with their own self-esteem.

But it's hard to love yourself when that one person you look up to tells you you'd be so pretty if you lost weight; or when the people you care about say that you're a little bigger than last year; or when the man you love with all of your heart, who says he loves you just the way you are, who swears he adores you with all your imperfections, suddenly decides that you're not what he wants and walks away, or stops fighting for you.

Yet, you have to love yourself. Because it's what God wants. Because it is your duty.  Because you have to lead by example. Because, sometimes,  you have no choice because if you don't then you'll sink in a sea of despair. You have to love yourself, even when you look shattered, when you have to donate your beautiful clothes away because they no longer fit, or when you look at high school pictures and realized you've let yourself go. You've got to do it despite the nights of utter sadness, the comfort eating, the anxiety attacks, the thinning hair due to stress. You've got to do it because you're worth it. If God thought you were worth creating, then you are most definitely worth loving. Especially being loved by yourself.

And by God, you are so phenomenal and out of this world, that if someone could comprehend what you are, the thing that you embody, they would hold onto you and never let go of you, a beautiful, bright, mighty supernova.

So  you're going to say that if no one sees that greatness in you, why should you believe me? Well, if they can't see it in themselves, if they don't see God's likeness and image in their own face, how will they see it in yours? Moreover... if you don't see it in yourself, how can they see the blinding shine if you cover it up with self-loathing?

Well, I'll tell you this: even if no one ever does see it, it doesn't mean it's not there. Sometimes the sun shines so bright that people shield away from it. That doesn't make the sun less powerful. It just shows how weak people are.

So dear former classmate,

1. Insult her body.     Love God with all your heart, mind, soul, and strength. 
2. Question her womanhood by being outraged that she has no children.   Love Thy Neighbor
3. Question her adequacy as a female by being outraged that she has no husband.   As Yourself.

VLOG-A-THON

Video's up, family.

Hope you enjoy!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dRyWpA4m3xw

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dRyWpA4m3xw

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dRyWpA4m3xw

OLE!!!!!!!!!!!

Hi friends and haters alike!

On behalf of #TeamMexicanGeordie (me), I'd like to thank you for being here today, on this memorable occasion, in which your eyes shall feast on the beautiful words flowing out of my nonsensical brain AND also feast on my booty-licious body, because--hear, hear!--there's a VIDEO at the end of this post.

Now, don't be a jackass and skip to the video. I know you want to see my face, but listen to what I have to say!!

Honestly, it has been so long since my vacation that I don't remember much. And I didn't take any notes, so...

But let me see what I can conjure up.

Ah, yes, let's start at the beginning, which also happens to be the most interesting part.

Ugh, it's so tacky...

I arrived to Spain in a state of mind that I can only described as the most incongruent, contradicting, and heart-breakingly fragile. I had been wanting to go to Spain for such a long time, so it was a dream come true in that respect, but at the same time the fact that this was a change of plans in my original itinerary would never leave my mind. I was keenly aware of the "should haves" and the "would haves" and it was at times such a sharp pain that it left me breathless. Nevertheless, I had spent hundreds of dollars changing my trip, so I had to make the most of it, and Spain seemed like the perfect destination to distract myself from what was not to be.

Anyway, cryptic as shit, but I'm sure most of you have figured out things have happened in my life in the past few months... and I rather not talk about some of the crippling, debilitating effects of--let's move on.

I HATE to ask strangers for photos... worst part of traveling alone!

MADRID

1. Intensely gorgeous.
Small, clean, and with beautiful architecture. Everywhere you look you see a beautiful building. La Puerta de Alcala. The Royal Palace. The Prado. El Parque del Retiro. I MEAN CAN IT BE ANY MORE BEAUTIFUL? I got to take a night bus-tour of the city and enjoy its cultured buoyancy and powerful majesty. There were several points during the three days when I told myself this was my goal city to live.

2. Feeling of safety.
I was walking alone well after midnight, roaming around like thousands of other people, enjoying a pleasant summer night (the temperature really does drop a ton... but the days are horribly hot and dry). I didn't feel in danger at any moment, and I saw many families out with their children strolling around.

3. FOOD GALORE.
You really can't go wrong. There's food for everyone. I found me a fantastic taqueria one night, and the night after I had Subway. I mean, YOU CANNOT LOSE (weight).

4. No sleep for you.
Between jetlag and anxiety, my sleeping schedule was shattered. I was going to sleep at 4am and waking up at 9... and if I decided to stay in bed, it was a lost day because...

5. HOLY HEAT, BATMAN!
I'm talking well over 40 degrees Celsius (that's well over 100, America!). I was melting like delicious yet sticky chocolate Popsicle under the dry Madrid sun. I had to come to the hotel room every day from 4-6 to just shield myself from the radiations (and I totally did not wear sunblock the first couple days so I was a nice crispy toast color by day three... not to mention with the most bizarre tan lines in the world, including a perfect circle in the middle of my chest caused by a combination of camera straps and the shirt I was wearing that day. I don't know... don't ask me how.

BONUS: WROTE A POEM ABOUT MYSELF:

Caught the ocean in my hair,
Gumption for the ages,
Freckle constellations,
Lava in my veins.
Crystal joints, shifty knees,
Samson-with-hair strong,
Pearly whites, hips don't lie,
Honest to the core.
Story-telling eyes,
Voice made to speak aloud,
Piano hands, football feet,
Nuclear-hot heartbeat.
Unquenchable, unfathomable,
Unending 'spite the storm,
My heart's still afire,
And You. Will. Get. Burned.


AVILA

1. St Teresa everything!!
I mean, isn't that self-explanatory? Museum, church, another museum, convent. Guess what, though? St Teresa's relics... NOT THERE! #KILLME

2. Death by exposure to heat.
This was the hottest day. 45 degrees. Pretty sure I was delusional as I waited outside one of the museums for them to come back from lunch.

yikes... gory!

3. Beautiful Medieval town!
I climbed up to the tower and walked on the city walls, beholding the red roofs and stone houses.

ZARAGOZA

1. Our Lady of the Pillar
Need I say more? Walked through the Door of Mercy, got confession, communion, AND got to kiss the pillar where Our Lady first appeared to St James. First Marian apparition in Church history. Catholic Universe implosion! The priest I confessed with was holy and gentle, and he knew exactly what I felt and what to say in response. It was like having a personal face-to-face with the Man Upstairs Himself! God's mercy at work!!!

2. Food poisoning
Just when I had finally gotten over my jetlag. Three days of torture courtesy of a Tapas Buffet. THAT'S why I always look for Subway.

BARCELONA

1. Crappy hostel.
Broken AC, LOUD PIPES running water at all ours of the night, tiny-ass bed, shared bathroom.
SPEAKING OF SHARING A BATHROOM. So one day my jeans got soaked, and they were fairly new, so they dyed my legs and bum dark blue. Then my body dyed the toilet seat dark blue. Then I panicked and thought of ways to fake my own death but I figured, 'Hey, it's a shared bathroom... no one has to know it was my tainted butt that did this." I regret nothing.

2. MASSIVE PLACE
This city is huge. Unless Donald Trump's hands. ANYWAY, it's big like London so you have to use transportation to get around, or else you end up walking a marathon, like I did. Why do I always do this to myself? Sigh...

At least I got to see a lot of the city, even the uninteresting parts!

3. SANGRIA!
Met some whinny Americans (from California and Florida.. DUH) and they bought me some sangria, which honestly I had never tried before. The stuff is delicious and quite cheap. I drank it like Kool Aid. I stuck with the Americans for a few hours and then we parted ways amicably.

4. ALTITUDE
Having the privilege to see the city from above was just priceless. I went up to mount Tibidabo and made myself nauseated with the height. I also went to Montjuic, where I paid 8 euros for a Cable Car trip down (instead of having done it going UP, so I didn't half-die on the climb... well, you live, you learn).

This is Tibidabo

5. I LOVE BEACHES!
As a beach-lover, I had to make my way to La Barceloneta, the main beach of Barcelona. On the last night of my stay in Spain, I walked to the beach and decided to take a dip... fully clothed! Besides almost drowning and looking ridiculous, I'd say it went pretty well.

There's a moment I do want to share...

After getting into the Mediterranean fully clothed, I came out and sat on the sand to try to dry. As the night began to fall, I started shivering because the temperature after sunset was quite cool and I was drenched. I knew there was a way to stop shaking so violently: I could just take off my shirt. But I kept thinking "HOW? I CAN'T DO THAT... I'm not like... well.. I don't look like someone who should take off their shirt in public..." So I sat there, trembling, cursing because I had not just brought a bathing suit and a towel.

But then, I started to think. Well, first, I started remembering what the last few months had been. Then I started thinking about who I was, and the poem I had written a couple days before. And I asked myself... "who? Who says you can't take off your t-shirt? You're at the beach. That's what people do at the beach." Of course, one is prone to think that flabby bellies with stretch marks are not what beach-goers want to see. But then, for just a moment, I thought...

"Who the hell cares?"

Who cares if I sit at this beach in my jeans and sports bra? Who cares if I have three levels of rolls of fat? Who is going to come tell me to cover up? Or laugh at me? Or scoff at my grossness? No one.

Not a single person. Because they won't dare. Because I am going to sit here, and breathe the salty breeze, and look straight ahead at the Mediterranean, and smile, and push my shoulders out, and keep my chin up, and none of these people will dare to break me because they can't. Because the only one telling me to cover up and to hide my embarrassment of a body is me. It's that high-pitched voice of the insecurities passed on to you generation from generation, the immature comments of your high school friends, the rude remarks of annoying older women who don't know any better. But I have the power to drown that voice. I have the power to punch that voice in the face, so to speak. And hear my own, my very own voice tell me, "Who the hell cares? You are who you are and you're cold and you need to take this shirt off and don't give a fudge about the teens over there. No, they are not laughing at you. They're smoking pot, they're laughing at everything. No, that lady didn't look at you, don't mind her. Sit here. Feel the breeze. Breathe. Enjoy not shivering to death."

I sat there, God knows for how long, and watched the waves come and go. And I felt like I was almost gazing at myself from outside my body. And I told myself that, even if he'd gone, even if he'd taken my poetry, my secrets, my dreams, and my favorite songs, he hadn't managed to take me completely. I told myself that I still had me, broken and raw, but alive and breathing. I told myself that if everyone else failed, I'd still love me. Always and forever. I'll love me even after everyone else is gone.


Thank you, España. You were exactly what I needed.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EnfOT34X5bc&feature=youtu.be

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EnfOT34X5bc&feature=youtu.be

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EnfOT34X5bc&feature=youtu.be