It’s hard to pin down exactly when I fell in love with Mexico. I have an awful memory and while it serves me well in eagerness to turn the next page on a book I’ve read too many times it’s pretty awful when it comes to telling origin stories. Did it start during one of many late night naive and ill-conceived Taco Bell runs? Or while ogling Rick Bayless’s biceps on Mexico: One Plate at a Time? Or that one time I had Cactus Tacos in LA? I honestly don’t really know. Every white girl has to have a fixation with a culture that is not hers and I imprinted on Mexico like a lonely baby duck. I’m not proud but it’s true. I have the tortilla press and a cat named Frida to prove it.
I turn sour around 2pm on Sundays. Bickering and moping around the house, I make note of the week’s leftovers. Stale chores, rotting goals, and long forgotten plans. I berate myself for not using my time more wisely and then spend the last remaining hours of sunlight in the fetal position scrolling through Instagram and Pinterest. We resort to our most primal defenses when confronted with horrors of reality. Namely, the work week. Blissfully lost in social media influencer’s worlds of Saturdays and Sundays, I eat halfhearted supper, squabble a little bit more, and then put myself to bed. This affliction is known as the Sunday blues.