Mexico is good for my ego. In the States I’m FAT. On a good day I feel ordinary, less than attractive. Not so here.
I’m walking around in shorts and a sleeveless blouse. Sandals, no nylons, no jewelry, no perfume, no makeup, my hair held up by a clip. I am as bare as I’ll dare on a well-lit day en un pueblito en México. It’s a hot dusty day and my skin is self-hydrating through perspiration. I’m going to need a long cool shower before too long.
Walking around in this minimum essentials getup of mine, I’m still getting more wolf-whistles, compliments and come-ons here than I ever could in Houston (wearing my sexiest dress, 4-inch open-toed black heels, sheer nylons and strategically-placed vanilla-based perfume). I always get a glance or two, a few smiles to let me now that the outfit has been appreciated, but rarely the frank admiration I get here.
After a day here I feel… and I write this knowing that I risk making a statement that collides with my otherwise feminist values… I feel like a girl. I feel pretty and wanted and sexy and sultry and coqueta and just plain nice. I know that I shouldn’t need to feel like that. And I usually don’t. But please don’t expect me to say that I don’t enjoy the reminder, every once in a while, that I have pretty eyes and a nice smile. Especially with as crappy a month as I’ve had.
I gotta go now. I saw some cute guy at la plaza I need to go smile at.