Menopausal Profiling in Mexico...

Mexico was magnificent.  

The kisses and cuddles were intoxicating.  The goodbyes... excruciating.

It's very strange to live with my heart in two different countries.  I don't think I'll ever get used to it.  Not sure I want to.  It seems an appropriate price to pay for such abounding love.

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Sadly - but not surprisingly - we just couldn't leave Mexico without creating a bit of drama.  Immediately after checking our bags at the airport, the Dickman realized he had forgotten to pack his 'lucky pocketknife'.  Shady character that he is, he slipped the small pocketknife into my gigantic hobo bag, thinking it would go undetected amongst the assorted crap in my purse.

We quickly discovered that any breakdown in Mexican security must be exclusive to the border, because airport security in Mexico is painfully efficient.  The Dickman's lucky pocketknife glowed like a lightsaber on the scanner and it only took a second for the attendant to fish it from the bottom of my bag and wave it in my face with a look of indignant indictment.  

In a flash of clairity, this became one of those defining moments in my relationship with the Dickman.  I have always felt my love for him to be immeasurable.  In that very moment, I saw that it could be exactly measured.  I do not love my husband exactly enough to risk Mexican prison for him.

I immediately pointed at him and yelled, "NO ES MÍA!  ES MI ESPOSO'S!!"

The screener gave me a disgusted look and left to speak to her 'jefe'. When she returned, she surprised me by handing back the pocketknife.  My sense of relief was short-lived because a few seconds later, another agent came and escorted me to a security station where she swabbed my purse and my hands.  

[Yes, you read that correctly:  I WAS SWABBED FOR BOMB RESIDUE IN A FOREIGN COUNTRY LIKE A COMMON HOBO-BAG CARRYING TERRORIST!]

Clearly, this was all the Dickman's fault.  (Who, by the way, was nowhere to be found.  Apparently his love for me is also measurable.)

For once, I was not to blame. Also, I watch enough world news to know what terrorists look like.  They're mostly young males who dress unobtrusively in black.  I did not fit the profile.  In fact, I'm pretty sure I was one of the least terroristy-looking people in the airport.  Picture me if you will... in a bright blue tunic with wildly patterned leggings and crazy hair sporting bedazzled flipflops and glitterly toenails.  There was not one stitch of black or cammo on my being.  What kind of profiling was going on here?  Crazy Menopausal Lady profiling?  [Watch for it, ladies, this could be a thing.]

I'm not gonna lie... there were a few tense moments.  Not only is it hard for me to keep from looking guilty whenever I am confronted by authority, but the entire time this was happening I was secretly making plans to befriend El Chapo and break out of prison.  And I was pretty sure they could read my mind.  

Hard as she tried, the agent could find no trace of explosives and was forced to release me. 

When I finally found the Dickman, he was spewing rainbows full of love and apologetic concern.  I wanted to stab him in the groin with his lucky pocketknife but decided to wait until my bedazzled feet were safely back on U.S. soil so I could plead my case in a Texas court of law where I was sure to get off on a Crazy Menopausal Lady Temporary Insanity technicality.   

In the meantime, not only did I ask him not to breathe on me or touch me for the rest of the trip, I also made him carry my backpack.

And walk way far away from me.  

All alone.  

Just him and his Vera Bradley...