I didn’t win the lottery last week. As an attempt to increase my luck, I asked others to choose my numbers for me. Maybe I’m so unlucky that I can’t even physically touch the paper. All I know is that it’s beautiful outside, but I’m eating my lunch in my office with my door shut just so that I don’t have to be around people for an hour.
Today’s lunchtime fantasy is: striking it rich with my alternative greeting card company (which is a fantasy in itself) and, when realizing that I would have enough money to live comfortably in a beautifully warm and friendly country, literally pick up my purse, my plant, my Abe Lincoln poster, and just walk away. I wouldn’t even wait for the elevator, I’d skip down ten flights and burst out the side door of this building and not ever look back.
It’s not that I hate my job or that I necessarily dislike the people I work with , it’s just the bullshit that comes with it – particularly the duplicity of some people. If I wanted to be stabbed in the back, manipulated, and taken advantage of, I’d just organize a family reunion.
If Mexico were safe, I’d move there. According to this Cuban student I know, Mexico is the place to be. But maybe not for a single, white female. He said I’d have no problem meeting a Mexican ‘stallion’ there, though, and then I’d be fine. I asked him how a horse would protect me just so that he’d roll his eyes and laugh at me like I’m a crazy old gringa. Mission accomplished. But how he speaks of the people there, I can see why he’s so homesick to be there. He told me about how isolating it is here, how distant the people are, how nobody really says hello, everyone is anonymous, nobody touches. The way he described Mexico, made me also feel a little homesick – homesick for a country I’ve never even been to. Warm, welcoming people. Laughter. Eye contact. Touching people as you share stories – appropriate touching, of course, like their arm or back… unless it’s the red light district and the stories are about what gets you off, then I imagine the touching is appropriately inappropriate.
My student promised to bring me back a Calavera from Mexico as a souvenir, to thank me for helping him out this past year. It’s amazing how doing such simple, human things like encouraging someone to not give up and reminding them of their worth can mean so much. And so, if this fantasy comes true, I’ll add this to the things I’d take as I leave: my purse, my plant, my Abe Lincoln poster, and my Calavera….