Pussy Toes

To “paint the town red” means to celebrate flamboyantly and publicly, especially to go on a wild spree, usually involving multiple bars, restaurants and clubs plus copious quantities of alcohol. “Painting the town red” is, by definition, a group activity, requiring at least two people, and must be conducted in a spirit of giddy jubilation. One lonely guy on a crosstown bender is not “painting the town red.” Of course, alcohol is not strictly required. Lottery winners, for example, often “paint the town red” after their wins, sprinting from store to store and acquiring plasma TVs, cars, multiple pedigreed pets and scores of brand new distant cousins as they go.

Day 150 of Sobriety

I am fascinated by my toes these days, I can’t take my eyes off of them and I’m about to sprain my ankle from twisting my foot to admire them from all angles.  I got my first ever pedicure about a week ago and I’ve repainted my toenails three times since.  Yesterday I bought a new pair of shiny red strappy flip flops to go with my cherry red polish and the flirty little skirt I bought the other day at the Funky Market/Dragon Bazaar we had here in our little village. I painted up my lips in hot red lipstick and sashayed my way down the Malecon in Progreso yesterday with Greta on the way to lunch at a great new restaurant we discovered. Okay, I have to be truthful since I know Greta is going to read this blog, I didn’t really sashay, it was more of a stumble in my new shoes.  I still haven’t learned to walk while sober.

 I don’t know who this person is that has come to occupy my body these days.  I’ve never in my life been a shiny toenail, flirty skirt and “f” me sandal wearing kind of gal.  Maybe it’s like my friend cp said the other day, “The thing I despise about addiction is that it closes a person in on themselves. It narrows the world down to just plain feeding the addiction. We begin to lose interest in everything ..including ourselves.” 

For me, alcohol was a 30 year insidious invasion that kept advancing until it had almost conquered me.  Almost.  There was still a stubborn corner of my soul that refused to back down, a tiny ragged fierce contingent that hung on for dear life.

Yesterday, after Greta and I finished lunch, we went to the market to buy flowers (first we stopped to get ice cream, of course).  I haggled with the flower stall owner over the price of three flower arrangements.

“Para la iglesia,” I pleaded. “de Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe.”  (They adore Our Lady of Guadalupe down here)

She finally conceded to sell me three for the price of two but not without putting on a sad face worthy of Emmett Kelly to let me know she wouldn’t be making any dinero on the transaction.  I assured her she would reap the many blessings of Guadalupe.

I dropped off Greta and drove back to my village where I dropped off the flowers at the church.

This morning I was eager to get out on the beach before anyone else.  The only other person that was out that early was a fisherman who was maneuvering his boat to catch the incoming tide, I set my beach bag down up above the tide line and went to help him. I have launched many a beach stranded dinghy after the party went on long after the tide went out.  We both got behind the stern of the boat and when the next wave came in we gave it a mighty push, setting it adrift.  He ran and jumped in and turned to wave good-bye.  Not a word was spoken, just two amigos doing what needed to be done.

I continued down the beach.  I have attracted two new beaus and they follow me every morning, they are brothers and I think they are part Rottweiler and part Akita.  They are pretty loyal but their heads can still be turned by a pretty young thing.  They abandoned me the other day for some twenty-something dark-eye nymph that was frolicking in the surf (as my friend Barbara would say, “All males are such whoredogs.”), but they came running when I called.  They know which beach bag their Beggin’ Strips come from.

This is me.  This is the person that was behind the sad clown mask of alcohol for all of those years.  This is that ragged but fierce corner of my soul that didn’t give up.  I won.

So today I’m just out there doing my best to regain more of my own territory and I’m going shoppin’ for a cherry red camisole to complete my outfit. Me and the gals are going out on the town tonight.  We’re gonna paint it red!

P.S.  You’re probably wondering how I managed to go almost 50 years without a pedicure, well, ya’ll know I’m a nail biter and let’s just say I’m not as agile as I used to be. Ewwww!

P.P.S. Concerning the title of this post, I just couldn't help myself.