“But why are apples so boring and cupcake so delicious? This is first thing I asking Jesus when I go to Heaven.”
— what I would classify as a legitimate question from one of my students last week, when I tried to convince him that all the fruit snacks we have at school are a blessing. Being allergic to apples myself and lusting after their crispiness and convenience, I found his complaining about being hungry because the snack had been fruit to be a little annoying. But I also think frosting is life, so.
March is “Fitness is Fun” month at my school, and we are provided with two snacks and a lunch everyday (and all the food is delish and a huge blessing), and during this month the cafeteria also had a challenge for the kids to try new veggies and fruits. It was pretty cool. I’m usually so hungry at lunch time that I just heap everything onto my plate and bounce, pausing long enough only to pour white vinegar on it all (Puerto Rico changed me, man!). So I wasn’t even sure what I was eating most of the time. One day we had something that I have yet to find an English translation for. I don’t think we have it in the States.
You know what they don’t have here, though? Real Cheetos. Leana brought me some back from Curaçao, and when I saw them lying on my bed, I turned to her and said “I have literally never loved you more than I do at this moment.” And we’ve been best friends for five or six years. But it’s been 8 months since my last Cheeto. I closed my eyes and ate the bag in a state of great happiness, not even stopping to consider the last time I’d washed my hands as I licked every bit of artificially flavored orange foam crumb off my fingers, completely unaware of the conversations happening around me.
I’ve already started a list in my diary of foods and restaurants to hit within 24 hours of landing in the States. It is long and non-negotiable and Mexican food is featured twice. I am only wearing stretch pants in California.
Anyway, back to Fitness is Fun month. We had Sports Day on Saturday, and I got to Zumba for the first time for like two hours straight. It turned out to be very fun but some preeeeetty suggestive moves to be doing in spandex in front of my students and their parents, but Brazil has made me even more shameless than I was before. Plus I had on a really cool sweatband, even as I realized I was feeling a bit self-conscious, as the last time I was gyrating or sashay-ing to Enrique Iglesias before 10pm and without some adult juice beforehand was…never. It was a little odd to hip thrust and raise the roof without a little bit of a liquid courage (I don’t really need a beer blanket these days but a beer shawl, if you will, helps me out). But super fun none-the-less, especially watching my male colleagues attempt the Zumb.
Speaking of oddly suggestive, I had a student ask me what kind of bathing suit I wore to the beach. And I told her “it depends on the situation.” So she clarified – “What kind of bathing suit do you wear to get a man?” FOURTH GRADE. This one in particular is her own kind of kid, but still. “IT DOESNT WORK THAT WAY,” I answered.
That same day I prompted some students “Guess what I did this morning?” and my sweetheart boy guessed “Get a boyfriend, Miss?” FOURTH GRADE. But I know at least it’s because that one has my best interests at heart. He’s the one that told me I needed to get married because I should be a mom to someone.
The other day I had a vision about the kind of man I need to marry. It happened like this – I noticed I was bleeding from my palm at my prayer meeting, and that my hand hurt, but I just sucked at the wound and figured I must have brushed up against something sharp on the walk over. The next morning my hand was swollen and a hard bump with crusted blood and pus. I panicked. I started to imagine what kind of bug had laid eggs inside my hand, my right hand, my writing hand. The larvae would move into my fingers, which would turn black and wither away and fall off, because I would never go to the doctor here because I don’t understand Portuguese or our health insurance. I would have a stump, and it would get infected and I’d have to fly back to the States for rehab and treatment, and never be able to braid my hair in any of the ways I’ve pinned on Pinterest. But eventually someone would overlook my arm stump and marry me, but then how would I strategically hold my bouquet in our wedding photos??!
I had all those hypothetical scenarios played out in my head by the time I had walked the four minutes to school, all the while having a conversation with my roommate.
Then I showed the wound to a friend who said it was a spider bite and I would live.
So my vision is that I will marry someone who will preemptively kill all bite-prone spiders, and talk me down from the hypothetical ledge. I’d also like a beard, Scottish accent, and musical talent. But I don’t want to push it.
May the odds be ever in my favor.