Piñata Days

Piñatas are not part of Spanish culture, but recently I’ve been wishing they were. It’s not because I have a hankering for cascades of chili-flavored candy. It’s because there are times I’d dearly love to beat the hell out of something without being jailed for it. Caving in the skull of a papier-mâché Dora the Explorer might just make me feel better.

I try to be an even-keeled individual. I really do. I learned early in my teaching career that losing my cool only gives my students ammunition for mocking me and results in concerned meetings with principals. Nope, it doesn’t pay to get mad. So why do I seem to be doing it all the time these days?

Granted, there are a lot of contributing factors. Diabetes, with its accompanying mood swings, lends itself well to fits of uncontrollable temper. In fact, it was a combination of low blood sugar and a boy named Charlie that made me realize that everyone, no matter how saintly, is a potential child abuser at heart. (No, nothing happened, but oh, how I wanted to wring his neck. And if you don’t think you’re capable of something similar, you just haven’t met the right child yet.)

Another factor in my temper tantrums could be culture shock. After seven months in a foreign land, I am well passed the “honeymoon stage” of my experience and firmly entrenched in stage two. This is the stage known as “withdrawal,” which is a polite way of summing up the feelings I’ve had regarding all things/people Spanish recently. (“GAAH! OUT OF MY SPACE BUBBLE! OUT! OUT!” or “If I have to eat one more spoonful of mayonnaise, I’m going to puke! Oh, wait. I just did.”) According to Wikipedia, I can expect to enter the “adjustment” phase within the next six months and start becoming more zen and accepting, but I’m not holding my breath. (Or eating any more mayonnaise if I can help it.)

The final excuse is, of course, the most obvious. I’m pregnant, which means the hormones surging through my body could probably power the Vatican through Holy Week. My roller coasters of rage could definitely be attributed to such constant chemical changes. (The doctor also attributes my hideous acne to the hormone spike and suggests I “wash my face with soap and water.” It is sometimes merciful that my Spanish isn’t good enough to allow me to express myself fully or I would have said, “Really? And here I’ve been slathering myself with pig lard every morning to get rid of them.”)

So if anyone feels like Fedex-ing me a Mother’s Day gift, a piñata and a Louisville Slugger wouldn’t be unappreciated. Oh, and send me more lard. I’m running out.