Cellulite Looks Better Tanned, EVERYBODY Knows That!

Christmas toes in Mexico!

I’m in a bathing suit—in December.
The only thing worse for me is being in a bathing suit January-June, July-November.

Remind me again. Why was this a good idea?

Because cellulite looks better tanned. Everybody knows that. Right? I mean, we can all just agree to that, can’t we?

Jiggly, white, bumpy chicken skin OR delicious, golden brown with crispy edges.

I can break everything down to a food analogy. It’s a gift.
And it helps you to understand how I think.

Remember that trip we cancelled back in September?
Well, we decided instead to run to Mexico and as luck would have it we have the resort to ourselves this week-before-the-week-before Christmas. The over-attentive staff are enjoying their calm before the storm (the place is sold out the rest of the year and into January), following us around with cold beers and guacamole, scented oils and homemade warm tortillas.

It makes me smile and squirm all at the same time.

Oh yeah, I could get used to this. And a bit of deja vu.

Ancient memory: For one week in my late twenties I had the good fortune to be taken to one of the all-time grand luxury hotels in the South of France, The Hotel Du-Cap-Eden-Roc, where besides exquisite food, surroundings and people watching, each guest is assigned a maid or valet depending on your gender.
I’m serious.

Immediately upon arrival, my assigned young woman unpacked my suitcase (while I stood there dumbfounded), and hung everything on quilted satin hangers. Then she matched each pair of shoes to the outfit (A talent even I don’t possess).

To my amazement, I watched as she meticulously laid out my beat up old Keds on a fancy, monogrammed white hand-towel.
What?
Had it been today I would have posted it on Instagram, the juxtaposition was just that good!

The whole experience of having a servant at your beck and call was surreal.
I had my very own beck and call girl you guys!
At first, I felt uncomfortable. Undeserving. Embarrassed. I was no better than her.

Quickly I became appalled.

This young woman was around my age at the time and it felt odd to have her waiting on me hand and foot.

After she laid out all of my mismatched, shabbily cared for make-up on the vanity and practically brushed my hair for me, I became indignant with my then boyfriend. The one who was picking up the enormous tab.

It was then that he set me straight.

“This is a career for her and a damn good one,” his tone suggested he was getting annoyed with me. “It’s not like in the States, she’s not waiting to sell a screenplay. She chose to work here. There is a waiting list to work here. They are heavy vetted and they only accept the cream of the crop. The best of the best.”

Now he was on a roll. “You’re the one with the attitude. You’re the one looking down on HER.”
Ouch.

As it turns out her entire family worked at the hotel. Her father poured drinks at the giant mahogany bar downstairs, her mother assisted the chef in the kitchen. It was their family business so to speak and she was very proud of that.

So I got into it, appreciating every tiny gesture. Reveling in her joy. Becoming friends.
She thought my American accent was really cool. I loved the way she called me Mademoiselle Janet.

She ran my bath. She brought me earl grey tea at 5 p.m. She laid out my clothes every morning.

Late one night she found me extra tampons which she delivered to me ever so discreetly, knocking softly on the door, averting her eyes and pulling them out of her pale pink uniform pocket tied with a blue satin ribbon. I kid you not.

When we left and I went back to real life—I missed her.
I missed her sweet smile, her heavily accented English, and how much she enjoyed her job. Oh, and the tampons with the blue stain ribbon. I desperately missed those.

So now back to Mexico and the same lesson was repeating itself all over again. I get squirmy when people are over-attentive. I shoo them away. I reek of embarrassment.

Raphael told me this story once about a riding trip he took to South Africa and how indignant he became after witnessing all the locals throw their trash on the ground.
Just like that. Drink water, throw the bottle on the ground. Eat a…something South African, throw the wrapper on the sidewalk.
After awhile his entire party started to do it. He was appalled, doling out the dirty looks like Tic-Tacs, running around picking up all the yucky shit off the ground until one of their guides informed him that the local government pays someone VERY WELL to do that very thing. So as it turns out, what appeared to be jerkishly-selfish littering was just the townspeople keeping some guy gainfully employeed—or he was being punked—I’m still not sure.

This same husband is fluent in “Mexican”, (he balks when I say Spanish so I’ll indulge him here and go along with the charade).
Anyhow, he was chatting it up with Pearla in the gift shop as he browsed for a better hat with a wider brim to protect his delicate French skin from the sun.

“She LOVES it here,” he informed me, translating their lively conversation. “She braved three interviews and waited several years to work here and when she left the other resort–they congratulated her! You know, they give her health insurance and many other benefits she can’t get anywhere else. She’s thrilled to be here. They all are.”

And you can tell.

For cryin’ out loud!
It is still and always will be MY attitude and misperceptions that get me in trouble.
They aren’t pretending I’m better than them—it’s their job to be nice!

Forever a work in progress y’all.

What do you think?

Carry on,
xox