painting myself out of the corner

well, here i am in the middle of march, in the middle(ish) of mexico. the ides of march are usually a fertile time for existential crises - and, despite my initial panic at having painted myself into a philosophical corner, me caen bien con ellos... once i'm out of the corner i find that i've figured something important out, or at least something that appears important at the time.

and true to form, i have been visited by a minor crisis this week in the form of a Sunday edition of The New York Times and a Harper's Monthly. (Melissa, that wonderful roommate of mine, brought them from Chapel Hill, along with a bunch of other goodies.) i should have been wiser - of course, after having only the limited stimulation that laboring (en español, claro) through the society pages of the local paper affords, i was bowled over by the foreboding and authority that comes simmering off their pages (really, Harper's should have a warning label on the front that reads "This publication is the intellectual equivalent of a trip to the gallows." and that NYT Magazine article about how we're hardwired to believe in the divine, no matter how contradictory it is, definitely gives me pause as i contemplate the little new-age platitudes i so love on the tags of my Yogi teabags.) but i love it - love that feeling of discovering a little more of the "truth," or if not the truth, a description of the mean of the human experience. and i found myself in something of a triumphant position, if only in that i have the wherewithal to realize i'm in that position - i see now that i have been skirting the edge of ennui here in mi vida mexicana, terrified that if i fall in i'll never find my way out again. but i've fallen in before, in places much more unfriendly (both literally and figuratively) than the one i'm in right now, and mustered the metaphysical strength to fish myself out. just knowing that keeps me on solid ground.

and what a gift, really, to know how puerile (can you tell that i spent this morning, a morning that began, blissfully, at 11:30 - this is my only day to sleep past seven, and will remain so for the next six weeks - reading last week's Book Review cover to cover?) my existence is in a place where, in the gaps of my internal monologue, i answer the question "who am i?" with not only "22 year old Lucy, recently out of college, and currently responsible for only herself" but "22 year old Lucy, in Mexico." so i'm (we're) doomed. now that that's out of the way, i think i'll enjoy myself.