moving to mexico -- the tropics

The Mexican beach is hot.  And humid.

I knew that before I moved here.  But that is like knowing that relationships can be difficult.  What I didn't know were the details.

I have written about some of them in past posts.  The rust on anything metallic.  Short half-lives for electronics.  Shredded cloth on any clothes made of silk.

You know those time-lapse photographs of rotting fruit?  Well, that is how I often feel.  That my flesh is rotting off of my bones. 

But I am still surprised when something new pops up.  Such as, that photograph at the top of this post.

The bed in my guest room seems to have a life of its own.  Three people in my family have slept in that room -- all with the same results.  Slip into a bed that is flush with the wall, and wake up with the mattress askew and the bed pulled away from the wall.

Earthquakes?  Not likely.  What is likely is the heat and humidity.  When I sleep in comfortable rooms (say about 50 degrees Fahrenheit), I wake up in about the same position where I fell asleep.

Here in the tropics, I turn into Steve the Thrasher.  If I do not move, I feel as if I am about to melt into a Wicked Witch of the West pool. 

The hotter it gets, the more I thrash.  The more I thrash, the more the mattress and bed move.  (The bed in my bedroom is set on one of those concrete bedsteads that look like an empty Transylvania crypt.  It doesn't move.  Maybe I should sleep inside it.  It might be cooler.)

But it does'nt stop at moving beds.  There is also the mystery of the Sticky Socks and Underwear.

I have a rule on selfies.  Nothing below the neck.  Today, is a bit different.  I wanted you to witness (at a distance) what happens each morning when I put on my underwear.

They get stuck on my foot.  Not once, but several times.  The same goes for socks.  It often takes minutes for me to put on a pair.

There is no doubt in my mind what the culprit is.  The same thing that makes chopped vegetables stick to my French chef knife as if they were super-glued.

Humidity.  I don't know where the border is on relative humidity.  But once it crosses over (I suspect 80% may be the target), getting dressed turns into a chore.  I think I now know why sandals and shorts are the beach uniform.

And whenever I get on one of these topics, I always weigh them against the pleasures I find down here.  The bugs.  The heat.  The humidity.  They simply do not outweigh the pleasure of sitting in my garden with a good book.

And enjoying each day without giving much thought to the fact that with each sunset, I am marching inevitably to my demise.  But it is going to be one fun walk.