One year ago today, Steve and I were in Cancun.

Alone.

For a whole week.

And I *stomping my feet like a 2 year old* want to go back.

The worst part?

Our friends leave for Mexico tomorrow, and they refuse to let us in their suitcases.

One week of being treated like royalty,

margaritas and Coronas handed to us every hour,

eating out for breakfast, lunch, and dinner,

and the beach…

walking on the beach, swimming in the ocean, lying in the sun…

Did I mention that I want to go back?

Since I can’t think about anything else today, I thought I would make you take a trip down memory lane with me.

(Originally posted as part of What I Learned This Week on October 12, 2009)

I learned that it doesn’t matter how many pictures you take of the ocean. It always seems like you took too many, but none of them capture what it was like to be there.

I learned that even when given the amazing room that you requested when booking, you should always ask if there is a better one available. Just to see what happens. Because asking might give you the amazingly amazing room with this view…

and these fancy rose petals.

I learned that even though I have never liked watching football, it’s really easy to watch while sitting on the beach next to the ocean with a huge blow-up tv screen.

I learned that in Cancun, it’s so humid outside that if you don’t want the marble floors to be (heavily) coated with condensation every time you open a door, you need to keep your hotel room at a chilly 20 degrees Celsius… which is 68 degrees Fahrenheit. I learned this when Steve walked into the room and slid across the floor the first night we were there. I was so bummed that I couldn’t get a picture of it Please forgive the lack of a picture, because I thought it would be a little inappropriate (because Steve probably wouldn’t have been happy about me whipping out the camera as he is sliding across the floor).

Because of the humidity in Cancun, I learned that when you walk outside with your sunglasses, or your camera, they fog up. Really fog up. And then you get pictures like this:

and this:

(pretty bummed about this picture, because I think it would have been my favorite from the trip).

I learned that even though we are in our 30′s, it’s entirely possible to be amused by burying our feet in the sand for an entire hour… if there are no kids around.

I learned that though it seems like it might be embarrassing to have your picture taken with a donkey (Steve’s idea, NOT mine), it’s entirely more embarrassing to show up at the concierge desk the next morning saying “Umm, we had our pictures taken with a donkey last night…”

I learned that it’s really easy to take feet pictures. And even though it’s no secret that everyone picks on my monkey feet, I think the feet pictures are cute. And it’s my blog. So there.

Yes, I know that you saw that last picture last week. But I think it’s cute enough to put in twice. Again, my blog. ;-)

Something else that I learned? Shadow pictures are also cute. Especially when it’s your husband’s idea to take them. I love him.

I learned that when vacationing alone, you get a lot of self-portraits and pictures of one person. But that’s ok.

I learned that down in Mexico, they haven’t had the pleasure of meeting Darcie and her chocolate cake shots.

So we introduced them.

First, we had one with the bartender (see him hiding behind the bar so he doesn’t get fired?).

Then, Scott from Arkansas wanted to try one. So we had one with Scott.

Then, everyone else at the bar wanted to try one. So, the bartender (Elias, because by then we were on a first name basis) mixed up 10 more shots.

And all those shots resulted in yet another self-portrait (cheesy grins just for Darcie).

I learned that there are always people that offer to take your picture when you try to take a self-portrait. So even though we have a lot of cheesy self-portraits, we also have a few good pictures of the two of us. Which is awesome, because normally they are few and far between.

Oh, this last one? Probably shouldn’t be considered a “good” picture of us, but who can pass up the silly photo ops?

Lastly, I learned a very. important. lesson. Maybe not so much “learned” as “was reminded.”

I am still just as head-over-heels in love with this guy:

as I was 12 years ago.

Mexican Memories… is property of: Our Crazy Boys

This is what I’m looking at today.

And I’m not happy about it.

Not happy that my morning run is cancelled for the next week or so.

Not happy that I’m not as mobile as I am used to.

Not happy that in 100 degree weather, I have to wear a hot boot.

Not happy at all.

Maybe I’ll move to Australia.

(Leave me a comment and tell me what book that’s from!)

Not happy. is property of: Our Crazy Boys

Note: If feet gross you out, you might want to skip reading this post. If you’re intrigued about what would prompt someone to write a letter to their feet, read on, my friends…

Dear Feet,

I understand that at times, I have seemed ungrateful for your presence in my life.

I am taking this chance to apologize.

It must be a thankless job, you know… being feet. You get walked on, stepped on, and stubbed. I get it. It sucks being you.

But we need to come to an agreement.

During the last few years, I have moved you to Tucson, land of the flip flops. Don’t flip flops make feet happy?

I don’t make you wear those horrible close-toed shoes in the winter (I thought you would have appreciated that).

I have even been getting you twice monthly pedicures during our summers here. Do you think I like sitting in those big massage chairs having my feet rubbed? It’s all for you, believe me.

Eight months ago (yes, can you believe it? You have been pouting for eight months), you broke.

I didn’t do anything to you.

Well, I didn’t think I did.

I joined a soccer team.

And I loved that soccer team.

Apparently, you didn’t.

Because, as I said before, you broke.

You couldn’t handle the stress of the soccer cleat.

Let’s be honest here. You’re not perfect.

You’re flat.

And though I am not usually one to tease, my husband says that you are ugly.

I always stood up for you though.

As soon as you got mad and broke, I babied you.

I stopped playing soccer. And if we’re being honest with each other, that made me pretty mad.

I also had to stop running. Well, I wouldn’t call it running as much as I would call it jogging. And panting. But that’s here nor there.

And do you know what else I had to stop?

Kickboxing. That really sucked. Because it was fun. And I could punch things.

I’m not going to mention those 4 weeks where I had to, for all intents and purposes, stop walking. I just won’t even go there.

I know you were mad when I let the doctor give you that cortisone shot. I did what I thought was best. That shot? The one in my toe joint? Yeah, I felt that one, too.

And then the boot. Ugh. The boot.

I know you hated that as much as I did.

And the orthopedic inserts. They’re trying to help you. Just give them a chance. Do you know much they cost? If you did, I bet you would stop aching when I wear them.

But that was all 8 months ago. Can we just get over it and announce a truce?

Because this is getting to be a bit dramatic.

Today, eight months later, we went to see a physical therapist.

Apparently, she thought you were very interesting.

Apparently, someone here hasn’t been telling the whole truth.

And it’s not me.

You’re not just flat.

Your achilles tendon is too tight.

And your range of motion is god-awful.

And look at what they’re making me wear now! How am I even going to wear cute shoes with this tape all over my feet?!

Now that we have everything all laid out, can we just get on with it?

I’m not even 32 yet and I have orthopedic inserts, for crying out loud!

And this? This is unacceptable. Look what you passed on.

So how about you call your little guys (you know, your genes) and tell them that we are way ahead of the game here. We saw what you did to me and aren’t taking any chances with the little guy.

Yup, Jack now has his own baby orthopedic inserts.

I’m done being nice.

Stop pouting and be thankful that you belong to someone who treats you good.

Because eight months is long enough.

And spring soccer season is just around the corner.

Sincerely,

Becca

Dear Feet, is property of: Our Crazy Boys