But my body feels...

Bodylicious. This may be a little bit more than you wanted to know about me for my more sensitive readers, or for the ones that want to preserve me as a bastion of class and beauty. The truth is my body has changed, adjusted or resisted Mexico, and it is a marvel to see. ;)

My hips don’t lie. They don’t. And they’ll tell you there are being well nourished. By the likes of churros, tlacoyos, quesadillas and conchas. I am not too into the junk food, but here every panaderia I pass, I enter. And buy. And eat. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me. As my Wisconsin peeps in my life know, I don’t heart dairy products with the exception of black cherry yogurt and feta cheese. But for some reason in Guatemala I consumed massive amounts of ice cream. At about one dollar for a double scoop of coconut and dulce de leche, my taste buds and hips were content. Here much of the social life is centered around food consumption. My week nights usually entail my housemate, Ellie and I spending hours in the kitchen cooking like grandmas, chatting like hens, laughing like middle-schoolers or, usually, eating like… well… And it is usually healthy things- fruits, vegetables, various beans and legumes. But when we hear the blow of the whistle from the tamale man, we go running with pesos in hand.

This isn’t so much a problem right now living in Mexico. The good lord may have been skimpy on the chest, but he made up for it with my posterior. But unless you live in Atlanta, DC, Chicago or Birmingham, pear shaped women are not as desired as their waif-like sisters until you head south of the border (I’ve heard Brazil is the best for us, gals. After I finish this avocado taco, I’m heading there). This is the land that appreciates a little more woman, and I am on the fast track to being all the woman I can be. Back in my social work days in Anacostia, I had a fond experience of my co-worker, Rebecca, a similarly thick-bottomed babe as myself, coming out from a meeting with a case management client and scoffing to me and our supervisor, Lynda, “That man just told me I had big legs!” My jaw dropped and I scoffed also. We white gals are not all too used to this being said to our faces, and us being proud of our goods. Lynda, a strong independent and loving, black woman, roared with laughter and matter-of-factly informed us that was a HUGE compliment in the black community. I immediately damned white men (once more) for not picking up this preference. This was on the forefront of my mind when someone in Anacostia one day exclaimed that I “gotta have some sistah” in me. I gave a proud peek back at my bottom, shyly beamed and politely said thank you. So, I moved from a Chocolate City where my junk in the trunk was exalted to a Latino country, where my curves are similarly appreciated. And my years of belly dancing, either in the classroom or half-dressed in front of a mirror when my roommates aren’t home, have helped me begin my mastery of shaking it- while walking down the streets of D.F. or on the salsa dance floor. I’ll have another churro, thank you.

Inside my nose. How much snot can one little nose hold? Uh… apparently a lot. I finally got sick from the pollution and not sleeping enough. I was blowing my nose many times a day. It’s really sexy. But even though I’m not coughing all night, there is a bit more mucus than I care to have. And grey. Come on. The pollution is supposed to get worse. The fabulous Sally Bennett was quite concerned that I was running many times a week in the pollution. I suggested she buy me a pass to a Gold’s Gym in Polanco that runs about $800 a year. She didn’t respond.

Senorita Debil. Due to Mexico City’s altitude, and despite my runs, hiking up a flight of stairs, is quite exhausting. During my marathon training days, I could easily do 6 or 7 flights without becoming breathless. And while I am not running at least 40 miles a week anymore, I am in relatively good shape. These days I’m nearly dripping with sweat and wheezing, when I walk up somebody’s front stoop. Quite frustrating.

One Non-Blonde. Can I just say that the cool, dry air here makes me rarely ever have a bad hair day (not always good, but at least not bad). Take that DC! After years of taming my curly-when-it’s-humid, iron-flat-when-it’s-dry, and usually just frizzy-whenever-it-wants-to-be hair, I have found the city that, at least, likes my hair. Additionally, I dyed it back to the reddish/brownish/blondish glory of yesteryear, loving the way it looked. Unfortunately it has faded back to the more Barbie-esque blonde, and I anticipate trying one last time.

Digestion. This here is a stomach of steel. It has served me right over the years as I’ve taste tested and devoured some of the most rare of foods and drinks. In my previous reign of drinking excessively, never once did I ever see my booze again once I chugged it down straight from the bottle in a debaucherous glory. While the days of out drinking frat boys are long gone, it has been replaced by spice, street food and bacteria-ridden water. The smells of amazing fruits and the bright green of gorgeous vegetables constantly tempt me. I love markets more than most, and there is nothing better than munching on some nuts or fruits as you browse and buy. Plenty of vendors guide me through the new species, urging me to taste test and sample, and laughing as I marvel and coo. It is hard to resist a guayaba, even when it isn’t washed properly. Yes, wiping that on your shirt will do.

I have woken up many mornings with an odd queasy feeling in my stomach and wondered if that would be my day (days, week?) of reckoning. Often, I just ignore, roll back over in bed and figure if it is going to be bad, it’ll wake me up again. And I have been safe. I have eaten plenty of spinach without questioning the preparation and if it came from the U.S. (which is a huge scare here, I don’t know if y’all are hearing about it). I am slowly becoming the person that gets ticked when there isn’t a bottle of hot sauce nearby. Will it be spicy enough? I douse it on, and don’t feel any effects. Street food is my biggest source of pride as I feel more Mexican when I partake, and it is so cheap. There has been a time or two when after eating a blue corn tortilla with huitlachoche and flor de calabaza, I have felt a bit nauseous, but I have forged on. And I have finally elevated to the level of rinsing my mouth out with tap water at the end of my brushing session. And I sing in the shower. But softly. And it is more dancing. My hips still don’t lie.

Casi Mexicana

Every month I am going to observe how I am slowly but surely becoming a Mexican mamacita. The old phrase of “if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em” is certainly becoming true for me as I slowly assimilate. There are days when I think, “I am the oddest person in this city, and certainly no one understands where I’m coming from.” And then there are the days when I realize just how much I love the Mexican culture and wish there were more parts of it in U.S. culture. Through adaptations, adjustments, revolutions and resistance, I will become casi mexicana (almost Mexican).

Blondie. The Guatemalan sun gave my hair beautiful streaks of bright blonde. After months of attempting to keep up with that, and a month in Mexico of being stared at constantly, I decided to dye my hair back to its original glory. A schizophrenic mix of red, light brown and dark blonde, that some like to refer to as “ginger.” I was sure I was scot-free from the daily awkward attempts at English, catcalls, marriage proposals and generally feeling like a rockin’ celebrity. Well, I was wrong. Very wrong. I have actually been receiving more attention- both wanted and unwanted. I think the reddish brings out my eyes, uh, or something. Or maybe I seem more approachable. Or maybe I just feel like I’m back to my original self and that is exuding from every pore. Either way, I like the color, but it didn’t exactly accomplish the goal I set out for- blending in. Appearing a little darker.

Brushing my teeth. You don’t drink the water in Mexico. In fact, you don’t wash your pesticide raised fruits and veggies in it either. They say you have to even keep your mouth shut in the shower. I was advised to ten cuidado (be careful) while treating my housemates to my usual performance of Fergie (how come e’ry time you come around my London, London Bridge wanna go down?...) and Justin Timberlake (dirty babe, you see these shackles baby, I’m your slave…) when I’m in the shower, just in case I open my mouth too wide and get some water down in there. And while I’m not chugging glasses of tap water, I am singing in the shower (thank god, it is such a stress relief) and even… brushing my teeth with it. And my lovely retainers. I figure slow introduction is good. At first I used all purified water, all the time. Then I started just rinsing my retainers in it (being featured in this blog is bringing them more stardom than ever before). After a while, I made the nerve-wrecking decision to rinse my brush after the brushing session, and at least 8 hours before my next session. Surely, whatever bacteria will die before then, right? And now, I have even started to occasionally rinse my mouth out a little. However, slight paranoia has me spitting like crazy afterward to assure complete removal of the tap water. Quite lovely.

Slang. Mexico City has its very own idiomatic culture of making words have excessive amounts of “ch”s in them. Chavo. Chela. Chilango. Panchanga. I spent over a decade now learning the proper words for things and I fly here and have to learn a bunch of other ones. Everyone said I would have to learn Mexican slang, and I thought, “whoa, give me a chance at getting fluent in the textbook stuff first.” But, let’s be real, I can’t be talking like Destinos forever now, can I? So, I said adios to the proper Castellano I learned in the suburban streets of San Antonio and Austin, Texas, and said hello to a dirtier mouth and more “Ch”s than you can shake a stick at. So, here is a run down:

We all know “beer” as cerveza. Here in D.F. it is chela.

That guy over there, he’s a chavo. And the gal next to him is a chava.

I went from being a Texan, to a Washingtonian, to being in the process of becoming Chilanga. Someone that is a native of Mexico City.

I thought I would be fiesta-ing all over this town, but really I’m going to pachangas. This one is particularly interesting because it is derived from “para changes” which literally translates to “for gorillas.”

“Cool” old school is padre, but for today’s folks it is chido.

I thought I would be trabajando-ing here, but instead I go to my chamba. My job.

And then I know a ton of others that refer to all kinds mind-in-the-gutter things such as sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll, that I will share on an individual basis. But I will not have the world wide web thinking that my ladylike have transformed to chanchada, or filth.