How many lives do you want to live?
Sindrome del Jamaicon: Nostalgia for Mexico while abroad. (It deserves mention that most definitions refer to missing the food, like the smell of freshly made tortillas or the taste of street tacos.)
My spirit animal is a cat. Not because they’re loners and they like to bake in the sun. Those reasons do speak to my soul. Rather, it’s their adaptability. The whole “9 Lives” thang.
QUICK RECAP: In 2012 I moved to Miami, smitten with it. In 2015 I met a potential (figurative) lover but commitment was out of the question. However, I fantasized about him quite a lot. In 2022, my feelings for Miami faded.
I called my once-potential lover for a date.
The date never ended, because I never left.
But I had some cleaning up to do with my ex. I spent the last week with the invaluable help of my beautiful mother, emptying the last decade of my relationship with Miami. Clothes, dishes, plants and books walked out the door, one by one.
The purge went so smoothly. No snags. Two suitcases remained, stuffed with objects I deemed worthy of joining me on my next adventure. Assuming I’d be paying an overweight fee, I was delighted to discover the luggage weighed 47 and 49 pounds, just shirking the 50lb American Airlines limit. This move felt so meant to be.
Regardless (irregardless? LOL) the experience was still so hard. Moving forces you to see the realities of life that you’d prefer to stuff down into the depths of your gut. Things like stability, relationships, confidence, and trust. Uncomfortable sh*t that I decided to feel fully as I sat alone in my empty apartment on the last day.
Over the years I’ve rode countless waves of varying identities that conformed to each location I’ve lived and worked. My wardrobe was dark in Philadelphia and bright in Miami. I’ve been a vegetarian, meat-eater, pescatarian, raw vegan. My wisdom (or lack thereof on occasion)has been wholly shaped by a string of cinematic love affairs, impactful friendships, music preferences, and many professions. Life has been anything but static.
Sitting in my vacant apartment that was just a week ago full of color and charm, I understood that I historically made a change each time I felt a new “me” blossoming. Sometimes in a small way, like learning a new language. Other times in a big way, like leaving Philly for Barcelona. I was always led by intuition without much thought to the underlying reason.
This time, I know the reason. I figure it out while crying at the airport in oversized cheap pink sunglasses, no tissues to wipe my running nose with, seated in between 4 husky construction workers stuffing face with Doritos. It’s all so wonderfully dramatic.
It’s about my aging process. A process of which I’m painfully, fascinatingly, aware. I no longer feel myself to be sun-drenched in a red bikini with a rosé in my hand (NOT the flower). Nor do I have the urge to hop on my cute scooter named Pearl to zip me up the block for a $17 acai bowl (generously doused in granola and honey, in defense of the outrageous cost).
As I creep closer to 40 (in 1 year and 2 months) I now feel soft and earthy. The whites, navy blues, greys, and greens that I’m drawn to are as tranquil as I envision my upcoming days to be. My desire is to find my own Zen within chaos. To sink into history, art, slow music, soft lighting, fluffy blankets, almond milk cappuccinos and empty notebooks. I want to stroll the market on Sundays and write from cafes on Mondays.
Will I want that forever? Who knows. Judging from my past, it’s doubtful. I do know that what I want right now is that intoxicating smell (and taste) of freshly made tortillas (thousands of them. I have no limit.). Guess I’ve been hit with that Sindrome del Jamaicon. Which is good because Mexico City is exactly where I’ll be spending the next of my many lives.
That’s why I’m a cat. And even if you pretend you don’t like them, you’re a cat too. How many lives do you want to live?
With love,
Bethany
