And what is the comatose state?

coma

The comatose state.

The state of being incapable of moving a muscle.

Absolute lethargy.

Disconnectedness from people, things, and the environment.

The inability to process information.

Those of you who read my blog regularly know that if I’ve entered this state, it can only mean one thing: I’ve made it to Spain.

Land of Don Quixote.
Place where tapas abound, where vino flows freely, and where coffee is known as “cafe con leche.”
A land whose food is so rich, you cannot avoid falling into a coma.

A paella coma.
A churros coma.
A tapas coma.
An Iberian ham coma.

The sky is the limit regarding the variety of food that can suddenly induce one to enter this catatonic state.

Unlike the state of “dolce far niente,” you don’t plan it, you don’t see it coming, you can’t prepare for it. It simply hits you.

You know when you’re at its mercy when your eyes begin to close; when your head dips forward and you look like a bobble doll.
All you want to do is sleep.
This malady doesn’t have an antidote; a prolonged siesta is the only cure.

Don’t fight it.
Don’t try to control it.
Don’t think you can outfox it.

Once it has you in its grip, you’re a goner.

It’s best to simply surrender
To inhale and exhale deeply.
To let it lull you into a state of oblivion.

The effects are temporary but the rewards are many.

Like Sleeping Beauty, you’ll wake up refreshed; ready to incorporate yourself into whatever you were doing before becoming its prey.

The comatose state: one of Spain’s greatest gifts to unsuspecting visitors.

I’ll be here all summer, folks and when I’m not in a food coma, I hope to regale you with tales from this magnificent land.

When was the last time you fell into this kind of state?

Reporting from sunny Spain,

How long before we wake up from the paella coma?

I was determined that things would be different this year.

I would be ready to hit the beach the minute I stepped off the plane.

I would rub sun tan oil on my skin as I jumped over bodies which lay baking in the sun.

I would quickly claim my spot by ceremoniously plunging the stick of my beach umbrella into the sand.

I would pack my bathing suit and cover up in my backpack, ready to don the second I made it through my mother’s front door.

My spanking new Diesel sunglasses would also be at the ready–they’d assist me in seeing past the sun’s bright rays as I scanned the perimeter for any sign of Javier Bardem.

My hair would be wrapped in a bright scarf, bohemian style.

I would make Maya Angelou proud as I strutted from one end of the beach to the other, every inch the phenomenal woman–hips swaying, shoulders back, chest jutting forward.

But alas, such has not been the case.

Once again, I have succumbed to the lethargic state that assaults anyone who dares visit Spain in the summer.

As we speak, my bathing suit, wrap, sunglasses, and scarf, are still stuffed in my backpack.

The beach umbrella stands in a corner of the living room, snickering every time I walk past it and whisper, tomorrow.

And the only bodies I’ve jumped over are Olivia’s and Roxy’s.
Oh, and occasionally, my mother’s.

They too have fallen victims to the fatigue that results from the abominable heat and breakfasts’ composed of baskets of churros.

You would think that my desire to find Javier Bardem would motivate me to abandon the chaise lounge that rests comfortably on the terrace.

Sadly, not even the thought of pouncing on the hunky Spaniard has been successful in plucking me from the spot on the terrace where the breeze caresses my skin and keeps me from turning into a puddle of sweat.

The only times I am able to muster the energy to take a few steps is when I have to go to the bathroom.

I’m convinced that if I were a man, I’d be relieving myself regularly in a Coke bottle.

Yes, this heat is not for the faint of heart.

Fortunately, when faced with extreme circumstances, we enter self preservation mode and give in.

We go with the flow; we practice the art of “dolce far niente.”

And in the process, we discover that it feels good to hop off the hamster wheel; to hide our “to do” list under our beach towel.

I mentioned this to the Significant Other on the phone last night.

He replied, “I wouldn’t know. I can’t remember the last time I did nothing.”

“You should try it! It’s utterly liberating. Stop being a hamster and do like a sloth.”

“Have you considered the fact that if I get off the hamster wheel you won’t be able to do like a sloth?”

“On second thought, who says being a hamster is a bad thing? Pedal on, my brother!”

Click.

Moral to this story: Never praise the joys of being a sloth to a hamster.

And now, I must leave you, friends.

In just an hour, Roxy, Olivia, my mother, and I will enter a “paella” coma and we must prepare.

The terrace has to be cleared of all clutter.

A fresh towel has to be draped over the chair.

Orange wedges have to be added to the pitcher of sangria.

My mother has to grab her book and reading glasses.

I must locate my binoculars so as to continue playing, “Where’s Javier?”

A woman could get used to this life, folks.

Hugs to all of you from sunny Spain!

How are you spending your summer days?

XOXO,