day 4 . . . almost the end

Good morning Mimosas ~ HOTD!

Thankfully Anne had the good judgement to be the designated grownup last night. We woke up, on this last day of our adventure, with more than cobwebs between our ears  .  .  .   I don't know what hurt worse, our scorched skin, our pride knowing that anyone who saw us today, and for days to come, would quietly say to themselves, "those poor stupid girls forgot to put sunscreen on  .  .  .  poor, poor stupid girls" OR our completely dehydrated bodies (now how did that happen again?). Seriously, this was a tough morning. We deserved every shred of consequence we were waking up to and OMG, what were we thinking? One might hope that hangovers after 50 would actually be easier to tolerate. (Although, as I'm typing that sentence I'm thinking to myself, don't be a moron, everything started falling apart at 45, why would a hangover be easier after 50 . . . RIDICULOUS!) 

In utter  s l o w  m o t i o n,  we stood up, walked around, not saying anything at all, just taking stock of what was likely facing us the rest of this last day in paradise: MISERY! Then, before depression took over, we collectively noticed Anne's Good morning Mimosas ~ HOTD, spread out on the veranda table. WOW, this might just work .  .  .  it had worked the first morning in Cabo, although we didn't have shame and 3rd degree burns to contend with that morning  .  .  .  it was as if we were telepathically communicating with each other because I truly can't remember any real conversation. We popped the cork and commenced, once again, in the hair of the dog hangover cure. (I'm feeling another DISCLAIMER urge) 

Magically, or because we willed it to be so, we gradually began to come to life. Cobwebs melted, shame sort of dissipated, but the heat radiating from every inch of skin that had been exposed to the sun yesterday seemed to increase by the minute. There was no escaping this effect. The mimosas helped to ease the pain and soften all areas of discomfort, physical and emotional. We were determined that this final day would be great! Mind over matter, right?

Festive Anne

There would be very little sun exposure today! Great, we are at a tropical resort, it's our last day and we can't get in the sun  .  .  .  payback is hell, especially when you are paying yourself back for being dumb. Once we were greased up with sunscreen, complimented by our cover-ups and giant floppy hats, we went in search of a pool with big umbrellas. As luck or determination would have it, we found such a pool - the adults only pool. That's right, NO CHILDREN ALLOWED. (This resort is very family-friendly, which we obviously support, but today, peace, quiet and shade were our top priorities.)

On the way to the adults only pool . . .

Anne stayed behind once again. Apparently we kept her up late last night  .  .  .  oops! Look how cute she looks on her little Mexican towel.

"Peace and quiet at last!"

Once we arrived at the adults only pool, we found the perfect giant umbrella that covered all three of us at once. Of course, we looked like human sardines, huddled together, siting side-by-side on lounges that were so close they looked to be connected. Samantha in the middle, Charlotte and I flanking each side - I sure wish we had a picture to share. I can only imagine what the other pool guests were thinking, besides that "poor, poor, stupid girls" thought we were sure they were thinking.  NO SUN TODAY!!!!

Cabana at the adults only pool

We wanted to sit under one of these cabanas until we found out they weren't free. That's how we ended up like sardines. Truthfully, as you might conclude, we didn't care  .  .  .  we were just happy to find shade. After about an hour, we were ready for a beer. (Come on, it was our last day!) We were certainly pacing ourselves today, as no one was willing to match yesterday's alcohol consumption. But a beer sure sounded good at that moment. So Samantha, ever ready, pulled out her trusty huggers. We had used them throughout the week, but for some reason today, they took on a whole new meaning. They even managed to be part of a photo opp. (In her real life, Samantha works for a DME [durable medical equipment company] and these huggers are great for advertising back home. So here's to their international debut!)

Thanks to Medical Home Care! (shameless plug)

We spent the better part of this day relaxing out of the sun, people watching, reading the books we brought but hadn't managed to read much, and just being peaceful. We weren't in a hurry to do anything and actually wanted to slow this last day down! We took advantage of this pool's happy hour, missing our buddy Roberto. All-in-all it was rather uneventful compared to the other three days. Nostalgia settled on our little group and it was sometime that afternoon that we came up with the idea to tell this story somehow. It had actually taken on a life of it's own as the days had passed. The first time we told it we were prompted by the question from a total stranger, looking for lounge chairs by the sky infinity pool, "so when did you all get here?" Why then did we feel the need to delve into the ridiculous details surrounding our delay? I guess because the anxiety had turned to comedy and from that point forward, it didn't take much for us to tell the tale. Sometimes we didn't need a prompt, we just got on stage and acted out each incident as they had occurred.  We made so many people happy, laughing out loud and then many of them blessing our hearts, as we do in the south. And we encouraged each audience to pass the story along, embellishing if they must  .  .  .  who knows, maybe we are already part of some Urban Legend in Mexico  .  .  .  maybe in some twisted version, we actually did spend the night in Mexican jail, or maybe we are still there, waiting to be released. I suppose the lesson is this, we three friends made the absolute most of a potentially devastating situation; the epitome of "the glass half full" philosophy! That's who we are and what Group Therapy is all about. We stumbled upon lemons, made lemonade, then spiked with vodka  .  .  .


To be continued  .  .  .