Overload

Mexico is a terribly noisy country. You are overloaded day in and day out. Dogs bark night and day, hysterically, and all you get by calling the police is disgruntled neighbors, but no solution to the dog problem.  People seem unable to undertake any activity without a radio going, CDs playing, singing, non-stop conversation.  Restaurants usually have some idiot box blaring, toward which your eyes seem to gravitate whether you want them to or not.  It always struck me that when my family travelled, especially in Europe, the only place we could go where we weren't the loudest and most raucous people around was Italy.

Acupuncture involves a soothing cloth placed over the eyes and an even more soothing Chinese music piped into your torture chamber.  Except, of course, for the fact that I can hear every obese patient being weighed and the subsequent congratulations--or not--provided by the doctor.  Every remark made in the waiting room seems to be made at the top of someone's lungs.  The receptionist of course has a t.v. on, playing some ghastly Mexican soap opera.  The combination of these things is worse than no effort made at all to create a gentle atmosphere: At least if there was no Chinese music, you could easily eavesdrop on other people's conversation without impediment, which can be pretty entertaining and under these circumstances, guilt-free. 

There is no peace to be had anywhere except at home, and that only once in a while.

The night after my first acupuncture treatment, I felt like I'd been electrocuted but, due to faulty execution equipment, had managed to survive.  On Saturday it dawned on me that only a mild weight workout was going to help, so I did that after a 5K walk.  Worked like a charm.  Next day, Sunday, instead of being horribly sore from fibromyalgia muscle pain, I was agonizing from the muscle overload.  As someone who wrote a book on fibro so succinctly put it, you're going to ache like hell no matter what you do, so you might as well be strong and sore instead of weak and sore.

On Sunday morning I went out planning to do another walk; the traffic was closed off around the park and every individual in the municipality was there--games for kids, chalk painting, those inflatable jumping areas, a kind of harness-and-frame bungee setup for children, people on skates, bikes, skateboards, and one woman who had us mesmerized as she bounded down the street with a pair of objects strapped to her feet that look miniature shock absorbers.  She wasn't bounding too high, mind you, because she seemed a bit unsure of herself, but without doubt she was going to run injury-free unless she lost control of her feet and propelled herself into a concrete abutment.

By the time I had marched 3.5K, the noise was getting to me.  There was music of some kind the whole length of the park, and a local rock band was warming up and getting ready to take off.  Finally I decided it was too much and I broke into a trot that I managed to keep up over hill and dale until I finished the distance right at the turnoff to my street. 

Then I made the mistake of going with my husband to the mall.  We hadn't started out going there; I talked him into going to Mass at a Jesuit chapel, since the Jesuits are thinkers, and he has enjoyed the sermons every since.  But lo and behold, the traffic was blocked off because of some blasted road work that is itself like God--eternal.  So naturally, we decided to stock up on Christmas wine instead of going to Mass. 

The wine store was closed.  It was high noon.  On the door was a sign that said "Open on Sunday from 11 to 2".  That was when we went to the mall.  I detest Christmas shopping.  I went to wait for Roberto at the restaurant where we were going to have lunch.  While I sat there, I realized that even without a t.v. set, the decibel level in the place superseded anything I had been subjected to so far.  It's a good thing our table was so small our knees met beneath it or we wouldn't have heard each other talk.

Then, when Rodrigo and gang came over in the early evening, I offered to go with my daughter-in-law to the store because she needed to stock up on groceries.  Sunday evening is a favorite grocery shopping time in our town because so many women work and because mornings are so hectic.  But when we got to the nearest supermarket, there was a line of cars waiting just to get into the parking area, so we went to Walmart. 

I don't ever again want to hear Christmas music, especially songs in Spanish sung by nasal pre-pubescent individuals.  This kind of spurious holiday cheer makes me want to puke.  The noise was made worse by the sensation that I couldn't escape because of the numbers of people stopped mid-aisle, apparently suffering an attack of petite mal (and I don't blame them) or catatonia.  When we got home, I blessed all those around me, and went to bed with my Kindle.  I can do that, they are used to it.