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acquistare viagra generico 50 mg One of the stereotypes that tends to follow Mexicans like a raincloud is the “disregard” for time.  Stereotypes are stereotypes and, as with tequila, they’re best taken with lime and more than a few grains of salt. But in the case of my significant other, the stereotype is, fortunately, true. There is a famous Mexican bolero from the ’60’s called ‘Reloj, no marques las horas’.  ‘Reloj, no marques las horas,’ it begins, ‘porque voy a enloquecer’ (Clock, don’t mark the hours, because I’m going to go crazy). In the song, the singer wants time to stop so he can be with his lover forever. While it may be impossible to prevent a loved-one from leaving in more ways than one, there’s much merit in living experiences unmeasured, off-the-clock. The ability to slow time down by being completely absorbed in the moment at hand is — well — an art really.  We operate in a schedule-fraught society but when it comes to matters of the heart, perhaps we should break the hourglass.

source There I am.  Seventeen.  At dusk on a Saturday night.  My anxious face framed by sheer, sepia curtains as I look down the long country driveway for a boy who was supposed to show up two hours earlier.  My parents, who had lived and met in Ghana, are faded in the background, telling me not to waste my breath, that ‘he’ will show up eventually.  If the Mexicans are anything like the Ghanaians, my mother says, 6:00 p.m. means anytime until midnight.  ‘Midnight tomorrow,’ my father chimes in.  When I complain that my curfew is midnight, they tell me not to waste my time.  ‘Get on with living your life until he shows up,’ they say.  ‘And if he shows up at 11:55 p.m., you’ll have five minutes together and that’s it.’

watch I may have read a book … or written a song … or studied.  But, as a girl born precisely at 9:30:25 a.m. Greenwich Mean Time, a girl whose heartbeat Anglo society turned into a tick-tock at birth, I was hopping mad with the boy who was born sometime in Autumn and learned to tell time with the sun. That night, I must have met him with two furious blue eyes and he must have given me a dramatic description of all the hoops he’d jumped through to get to me. Knowing him, it must have been a convincing English explanation uttered in a heart-melting Spanish accent and sealed with a kiss. Five Anglo minutes was all he needed to convince me that a hundred of the damn things didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he’d been busy earning the money to buy the car parts to fix the car he needed to drive to my family’s house to see me. Slowly but surely, I stopped worrying about time after that.  With the exception of our wedding day and the milestones, big and small, of our children, my relationship in and of itself has been clock-free.  Not long after our wedding, I stopped wearing a wrist watch.  There are no clocks on the wall at our house.  And the clock you see in the photograph accompanying this entry has been at 5:33:43 a.m. or p.m. since it was given to me. Chronologically speaking, we respect the contexts we move through by showing up on time for work-related commitments and social events on the English-Canadian side of the family. But in our own personal space, we are as timeless as it’s possible to be in an hourglass world. Of course there have been times when I’ve reverted to the metronome installed in me at birth and come up against the man who refuses to be a slave to the clock. When this tension flares up, he always wins. And this is why we catch the sunsets we would’ve missed if we’d left at midday.  It’s why we once escaped a multi-vehicle car accident that occurred moments before we slowed past it on the highway.  It’s why we’ve run into pivotal people ‘by chance’. It’s why we are anywhere at any hour to sort something out for our loved-oneIMG_1749[1]s — in the dead-of-night, in the faded shades of dawn. And, more poignantly, it is why I have the last memory of my grandmother that I have. She’d been visiting from England and, though we’d spent quite a lot of time together, she was insistent on taking me out one last time before she returned to the UK.  I, on the other hand, was fussing over an appointment I had with the children.  “I’ll take the appointment,” my husband said. “Spend as long as you want with your grandmother. Don’t come home.  Because you never know.” She died unexpectedly a week later.  Reloj, no marques las horas porque voy a enloquecer. Es que — aquí — comemos cuando tenemos hambre.  Dormimos cuando tenemos sueño. Salimos cuando estamos listos.  Y regresamos cuando se acaba la fiesta.  Y al fin del día, cuando la luz en el jardín tiene la matiz de bronce y las sombras de las hojas parpadean en las paredes de la cocina, el chico mexicano dentro de mi marido mira al cielo y me dice en inglés, “It must be seven o’clock.”

levitra for women ______________________________________________________________________________________________ Translation:  It’s that — here — we eat when we’re hungry.  We sleep when we’re sleepy.  We leave when we’re ready. And we return when the party wraps up. And at the end of the day, when the light in the garden is bronze and the shadows of the leaves flicker on the kitchen walls, the Mexican boy inside my husband looks at the sky and says to me in English, “It must be seven o’clock.”

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