Receiving a heavy dose of vitamin D at my fave Sunday hangout, enjoying a glass of wine and reading Braving The Wilderness again. I like to re-read books, particularly self-helpy, philosophy-ish kinds of books. I’ve read some books 3 or 4 times.

We are often drawn to these types of books in moments of difficulty in our personal or professional lives, so I sometimes like to go back and read things like this when I am no longer in that mindset. It’s always a completely different me who’s reading it.

One of my friends is reading it right now too, so that’s sort of fun. And in this moment I am inspired with an idea for my own piece, inspired by Brene Brown and her ideas about belonging to one’s own self, first and foremost, above all else. Being at home with yourself.

There are few things I love more than receiving inspiration. It feels like light being injected straight into your brain.

A man rushes in, not sure why so rushy-rushy, but he’s interested in a table for 4 and he makes the wheelchair motions.

I catch a bit of his East coast accent, which explains the rushiness, and I laugh to myself as I realize that he for sure did not buy that stylish short sleeve button down shirt he is wearing, and I conclude that since I rather like the shirt, my money’s on “his 40something daughter back in New Jersey bought it”, knowing that if left to his own devices he’d just pack all his bowling shirts from 1973. And that’s not OK Dad.

There’s the “polyester doesn’t breathe” issue, in addition to the style one. And just like that I become 100% confident he has a collection of bowling shirts at home that no one thinks are cool but him.

My Caesar salad arrives and it’s beautiful. They make it with whole leaves of romaine, and the dressing has lots of garlic, like it’s supposed to. I am not much for photographing my food but I snap a shot anyway and send it off to my mom real quick. She loves a proper Caesar salad.

A group of French Canadians with a Chihuahua walk in and sit at the table next to me. I tell Ruby to stop bothering the man and he switches from French to English like it ain’t no thing, to inform me that he loves dogs and he hopes she can hang out with him?

Yes, she can.

When the waiter comes, they transition effortlessly to Spanish. We’re in a European-style cafe, on the Riviera Nayarit in Mexico, speaking French, English, and Spanish. Heck, we even speak a little mime. I love us.

The man who speaks mime and needs his daughter to dress him for vacation is still waiting for his friends, so he’s standing out there on the Malecon looking adorable and fragile, like old men do, and a little cranky. Also like old men do.

Just then a fast moving bike goes whizzing right past him, it really was a bit fast and close for comfort, and he makes this hilarious grand gesture like he’s being tossed about in a whirlwind and then comes to rest, hands on knees, staring down the back of his nemesis as he quickly fades into the crowd.

This show was performed for seemingly no one, and I fall in love with him a little more.

The crew starts to filter in for the evening shift, and I am gifted with one kiss, hug, and kind gesture after another as they each show up for work. “Good to see you Emily!”

It’s really good to see you too.

I look over and the old man has his extremely nice phone out, a fine piece of technology, I can see it from here… his daughter definitely bought that… and he’s photographing the plaque alongside the St. Francis statue. I dig that plaque too. I too have a photo of it, somewhere.

Wheelchair arrives and the table is ready for them, but her feet keep hitting the center pole under the table. She needs a slightly bigger and higher table so she can fit comfortably underneath. I start scanning the restaurant and don’t realize a man in a table near me is watching me.

“Trying to figure out how to fix that?”
“Yeah it seems so easy but all of these tables are so uniform. She needs something that’s just a little bit different, but I don’t see it.”

He asks for his check and I do as well. He pays and leaves and soon after he goes, the wheelchair table is flooded with sun so they ask if they can move. They are moved to the spot the guy just vacated. The table is exactly big enough and tall enough, and now shady enough, to give her the best possible dining experience.

I think to myself it’s so cool how life flows.

My bill is $520 pesos and of course I have only 2×500. I hate it when that happens. Change isn’t exactly forthcoming in this town so whenever possible I try to be exact with my money.

“Do you have this much change? I’m sorry amigo.”
“For you amiga? Anything.”

And I know they mean for anyone, anything, but I appreciate the sentiment, and they will be handsomely rewarded. I’m sure they know this. I hope they do by now. I’m a big proponent of sweetness and I do reward it handsomely.

Think I’ll go home and write something.


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Published by Emily Murray

I believe in our strength and adaptability as humans, and in the serious work involved in becoming who we dream of being. Self-care is a huge component of self-love, and The Changing Room is all about finding new ways of growing and healing. Seeing beauty in ourselves and in each other, and translating that to living our best lives. Become a sponsor of The Changing Room!

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