Pleats and Puddles Cliffhanger

I realize I left some of you in the dark about the pleats and the puddles of dust. This was not an entire blog's worth of story-telling, but I will say that as I was running around trying to get lost and not sweat I discovered that there is one great joy to American public schools: FASHION.

Here, you've got your prep and high school uniforms swimming the streets like they were going out of style. I've got NEWS for you, Mexico! They've BEEN outta style, you got me?! Or maybe they really have an unnatural love of khaki and navy blue that we United Statesians won't understand due to the asymmetrical nature of our culture.

I have to say that while the various shades of navy and khaki, and the size of the plaid patterns vary, pleats are a-plenty. I wonder if it's the pleats. For the sake of the pleat, the uniform will remain. They are everywhere! I sometimes wonder why they don't pleat their backpacks, they're already on the pants, the skirts, the shirts... I wonder if you can pleat a shoe? Probably not, if you could Mexico would have made its teenagers wear them already.

As for the puddles... of dust. I'm amazed each time I hop off my country bus, onto my country road, and make my way toward my country home (anywhere else this would sound so elegant and charming).

As I cross the quiet highway and enter the drive that is to take me to the gate of my country home (again, charming, right?) I realize there is a sudden give-way beneath my country boots (also known as worn All Stars), and a cloud of dust lifts gently off the ground (i.e. gets in my face, blows about for a bit just to make sure it covers my pants and turns my shoes an uncanny tint of khaki - again, with this country and KHAKI).

I continue gaily down the lane with my recent purchases (peanut butter, gouda, the usual) swinging by my side, making a lovely swishing sound as the plastic bag swings back and forth, I realize that the dust phenomenon is not a passing fancy. It's continued to life, to swirl, to blow about, and now to get into the holes in my Converse (I said "worn"), and seep through my Hanes all the way until they reach the in-betweens of my toes. Yes, the in-betweens therein.

After a kilometer of prancing through the dust, and as frustrating as it can be to have to wash my feet and change my socks each time I arrive from a days' outings, I am always thankful for one thing: no rain.