Mario must be the man who is coming to fix the wardrobe…
I wrote a book book. A literary masterpiece that should actually qualify as a book because it’s significantly more than 2 pages long. It could be described with the following adjectives:
Fun
Light
Intimate
Sexy
Inspiring
Motivating
Whimsical
Not permissible for my father to read
Vulnerable
Ah that’s the word. Vulnerable. Do you know it’s taken me 10 years to finally get this book out? I’ve been adding, cutting and tinkering with the manuscript for the entire decade I was learning my 80 Life Lessons. When I finally decided to do the damn thing, I reflected on why the H-E-Double Hockey Stick (can we bring that back?) it had taken me so long.
Basically, I didn’t know how people would receive it. Surely they’d judge my escapades, my freedom and my decisions that, from an outsider’s perspective, might seem like poor ones (i.e. charging airline tickets to an ever-expanding credit card balance while contributing absolutely 0 dollars to retirement. We can dig into my thoughts on that later because those will surely be unraveled in a subsequent memoir, tentatively entitled Sundays with Jia, which will take place right here, en mi Mexico lindo.).
Anyway once I hit my late 30s it dawned on me. Do I really care what people think anymore? Aren’t we all basically bobbing around this beautiful planet trying to figure out what the heck we’re supposed to be doing?
Does anyone know how to do this life thing right?
When I realized the answer was NO, I made some moves with my book.
I sent it to an editor.
I sent it to a designer.
I’m going to publish it as an e-book.
I’m going to sell it to anyone who’s interested.
(Except my father. He can’t read it.)
Would you like an excerpt?
Hope so, because here it is:
Mario must be the man who is coming to fix the wardrobe, though it doesn’t look like it needs to be fixed. I hope he’s cute in a scruffy way, with tanned skin and tousled hair, wide shoulders and strong arms. That’s how I imagine a Catalán carpenter to look. Slightly sweaty, fingernails stained by the manly labor required to perfect that dresser. I’ll stand behind him, watching him work. When he’s completed the task, he’ll turn around, look deep into my eyes, and in a fury of intoxicating desire, he’ll lift me up in those muscular arms and…
“BAH-LAY?”
I’m rudely snapped out of my delicious daydream by Maria, the woman currently standing in front of me. Why does she keep saying bah-lay? What does that even mean?
I stand, perplexed, mom by my side, struggling to understand and translate what Maria is saying. More accurately, trying to translate the conversation that Maria is having with herself, because in between drags of cigarettes, she is rattling on a mile a minute and using words I have never learned in my ten years of Spanish class. I take it from context clues that this wardrobe in front of us is going to be mine, it needs to be fixed by Mario, and bah-lay must be a Catalán phrase for “Do you understand?”.
"Si, si, entiendo,” I say. But, I, clearly, do not entiendo. It takes me a while to figure out that my handsome, scruffy and strong carpenter, Mario, is actually armario, as in armoire or the closet where I have been instructed to unpack my things. The closet that needs no repairs whatsoever. And bah-lay? Bah-lay is actually, vale. Or the Spanish from Spain version of “okay.”
Vale, I am getting it now.
Want to get on the pre-order list?
Yes! I want to pre-order your book.
It might not change your life, but it will invite you into mine.
With love,
Bethany
