It’s an odd experience watching someone fold your underwear.

I was thinking this yesterday as I was waiting for my laundry. When my husband, Peter, and I packed to go to Mexico, we knew there would be a wide range of temperatures. San Miguel de Allende is in the mountains, so the days can be quite hot, and the nights can be cold, and the weather changes a lot in November everywhere, so we had to be prepared for anything.

We do not have a washing machine in the little place we rent, so I walk a few blocks to the tiny neighborhood laundry and leave my clothes there.

The truth is I don’t need a lot of clothes. I joked during the pandemic that all I wore were pajamas at night and clothes that looked like pajamas during the day. This has not changed significantly. Ninety percent of the time, I am wearing the same uniform.

Yesterday, all the variations on my uniform were dirty, so I went to the laundry.

The laundry service holds two washing machines, two dryers and a constantly changing cast of one to three cheerful women who weigh the laundry, wash it, throw it in the dryer, carefully fold it on top of the two dryers and return it to my laundry bag for approximately three dollars.

If I leave it in the afternoon, I have to wait until the next day to pick it up. But since I don’t have that many clothes, I try to get there before noon. They will then tell me to return at three o’clock to pick it up. Three o’clock does not mean precisely three o’clock -- I know this by now -- so I come a little later. But even so, they were not quite finished when I arrived yesterday. So I stood on the sidewalk (There is no room for a customer in this tiny place!) and waited while my underwear was folded.

For the record, I don’t usually fold my underwear. I’m not sure if that makes me a savage, but I just don’t. It doesn’t wrinkle, and it doesn’t seem to stay folded, so I don’t see the point. But the two ladies at the laundry were carefully folding my undies, and there was nothing I could say to stop them. They also folded all of Peter’s socks and Peter’s underwear, and I stood by, helpless, not feeling I deserved -- or wanted -- quite this much customer service.

The laundry ladies were not in a hurry. They were chatting away, oblivious to the anxious gringo lady standing at the counter on the sidewalk, and I realized I had no reason to be anxious -- in either sense of the word. I was not in a hurry and certainly, when it comes to underwear, these ladies had seen it all. So I tried to relax while I waited for my laundry.

And, as I watched them, it occurred to me how little I really need. That small pile of clothes was everything Peter and I had worn for the last two weeks, and we had everything we needed. I thought of all the clothes I have at home and wondered how they earned their keep.

That is, perhaps, one of the greatest gifts this time in Mexico gives us. It’s good to be reminded that I have enough clothes and I have enough time. It’s good to be reminded that, most of the time, living simply is better. And it’s good to remember that it doesn’t really matter if someone sees my underwear.

Till next time,

Carrie

Photos from the column can be found at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION FOR UFS

My husband, Peter, and I feel like social butterflies.

We certainly are not. But it feels as if we are, because we are staying in a new city and finding it is easier to make new friends than any time since we were children.

When Peter and I moved back to Minnesota to be closer to our family, we missed our old routines and the friends we used to spend time with. Moving to a new city did not bring with it a lot of new friends. Everyone already had friends. Peter and I saw a lot more of our families, which was wonderful. But except for the friends we still had from when we lived here as teenagers, we didn't see a lot of new people.

This is not the way it works when we are in Mexico.

"Can we have brunch with Karina and Rick on Friday?" I asked.

"We're going to dinner with Joel and Chene on Friday."

"I thought we could do brunch."

"We're having brunch with Raul and Nathan."

"Oh."

I realized I had something scheduled every day this week. This is not like me.

Somehow, spending time with people who are all new to this place -- leaving what is familiar and trying something new -- something about this pulls us together. I realized it's because we're all newcomers.

As newcomers, we're eager to share our newcomer energy, to hear where other newcomers have been and where they're going next. Almost all the newcomers I meet are making changes, going to new places, trying something new. And, because they are newcomers, they all are excited (and a little nervous) to tell others about it.

"I started painting during the pandemic," Rosalie told us. She claims she is not an experienced painter, yet all her work has been eagerly taken by friends who have it hanging in their homes.

"I'm working on a memoir."

"I've taken up yoga."

"I'd like to write a novel."

"I'm fostering a dog."

The thing we newcomers all share is the opportunity to look at this new place with fresh eyes and apply that fresh perspective to our lives. I am amazed how few people I meet are trying to replicate the lives they have in the U.S. or Canada. Instead, they are figuring out how to do things differently in this very different place -- where fireworks go off every night and occasionally at six in the morning, where roosters are constantly crowing, and dogs barking, and the streets are paved with cobblestones, and a lot of the shoes we brought do not work at all.

"Oh, my gosh! I nearly killed myself trying to walk in platform sandals last night!"

"I know. Platforms do not work!"

I love hearing stories about changing course, trying new things, getting off the beaten track.

Meanwhile, I keep working on my new project, getting my first novel ready to sell. My agent tells me we're almost ready. It will be a long process, she says, and there are no guarantees. I'm OK with that. I know I'm a newcomer to this as well.

Spending time with newcomers in Mexico has made me realize that most of us aren't attached to a particular outcome. We like what we are doing right now -- and we like doing it together.

"It's about enjoying life while we're living it -- and not worrying about when it's going to end," Karina, another newcomer, said over dinner last night.

I like that. And I think there might be time to squeeze in one more coffee this week.

Till next time,

Carrie

Photos from the column and a link to YouTube videos can be found at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION FOR UFS

I am delighted to report that my mother has come around.

I have been lobbying my mother for months to take pity on a little red squirrel who had acquired a great fondness for her, demonstrating his devotion by digging up all her flowerpots and gazing at her for minutes at a time through the window. My mother spent the summer shooing him off the deck and telling him to "scram" when she saw him through the window.

"He loves you, Mom."

"I don't love him!"

The little squirrel persisted. He would stare through the window, standing on his hind legs with his little fingers knit together, as if he was about to make a speech. I suspected I knew what his speech would be about. He wanted to be my mom's pet.

"He's not my pet!" my mother insisted.

A couple of weeks ago, I sent her a video of a squirrel that had been allowed to live in someone's house.

"Never inside!" she texted back.

The fact that she said "never inside" instead of simply "never!" indicated to me that she was softening on the subject. I suspected I knew the reason. Sometime early this fall, the poor squirrel lost half his tail.

"He was too preoccupied looking in the window at you!" I told her.

"I don't know how he lost it," my mother said. "Maybe a fox."

I could tell this recent bit of bad fortune had tipped the scale in favor of my little furry friend.

"Squirrels need their tails," my mother said. "They use them for balance. He might not be able to climb trees anymore!" As if to reassure my mother, the little squirrel nimbly scrambled up the nearest pine tree with a cone in its mouth.

But now all the other red squirrels had disappeared for the season, and this one fellow was still there, with half a tail, hanging out on the deck and acting as if he desperately wanted to be part of the family.

"Well, I've decided to start feeding him," my mother told me.

This is a big concession for my mom. Squirrels are the never-ending adversary, always looking for ways to get into the bird feeders. My parents have put considerable effort into thwarting their attempts. The red squirrels in particular are mischievous, dropping things onto the deck, stealing birdseed every chance they get and chattering loudly when they have some complaint -- and they are always complaining about something. This fellow is as bad as any of them. But he won't go away. And now he only has half a tail.

"So I guess he needs a name," my mom continued. "Your sister suggested Richard, but that sounds too dignified to me. I suggested Ricky." Obviously, things had progressed significantly if my mother was christening the wicked little red squirrel.

"But Beau pointed out that we don't know if it's male or female, so maybe we should pick a name that would work either way." Beau is my nephew, and he is very concerned about inclusive language.

"Beau suggested Ray," my mom continued, which did not sound very squirrel-like to me.

"It's missing half its tail," I reminded my mother. "Why not call it Stubby? That would work for either gender."

"Stubby!" my mom laughed.

Whatever his (or her) name, I feel a lot better about Stubby's chance of making it through the winter with half a tail now that there is a daily serving of seeds on the deck railing.

And I am pleased that my mother has finally acquired a new pet.

Till next time,

Carrie

Photos from the column and a link to YouTube videos can be found at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION FOR UFS