"I don't know many words about teeth," I told the dentist.

Since my husband, Peter, and I spend time in Mexico, it makes sense to get dental work done while we're here, and I had been putting off going to the dentist. I knew I needed to get work done where my gums had receded, and the enamel no longer covered what it was supposed to. I've been told that over-exuberant toothbrushing contributes to this condition, so I've been trying to ease off. But I don't really think my toothbrush is the cause. I'm just getting old.

"Do you have the expression 'long in the tooth' in Spanish?" I asked the dentist and dental hygienist in Spanish.

I like this dentist. His name is Patricio. He is young and works quickly. He has a nice waiting room with a comfortable purple couch and a dental hygienist who doubles as his receptionist. As far as I can tell, they are the only two working at the office. They are open six days a week, and until 8 p.m. on weekdays. So, even with a short break in the afternoon, it's a long day. This is why I was sitting in his chair at 6:30 in the evening, chatting about long teeth.

"It's what we say about horses," I continued, while Patricio prepared his tools.

"Horses?" Patricio looked confused.

"The animal?" I clarified. Sometimes even when I know a word, I panic and think I have just said "cowboy" instead of "horse," and am describing long-toothed cowboys.

"Yes, a horse," Patricio confirmed.

"We look at their teeth to see how old they are. If they are old, they have long teeth. And so it's how we describe something that is old. It is long in the tooth."

I knew Patricio was busy with his dental preparations, but a part of him was puzzling over why the length of horses' teeth had any relevance.

"So, I am an old horse," I concluded triumphantly. "I have long teeth!"

The dental hygienist laughed, but I'm pretty sure this was because I was a crazy gringa, not because I had managed to communicate anything meaningful.

"I'm sorry," I added. "I don't know many words about teeth."

So, as he worked, Patricio patiently taught me words about teeth. I learned saliva and resin and anesthesia (which were almost the same as in English), and gums (which was totally different), and a verb that described what he was doing with the drill (which I immediately forgot), and several other words Patricio thought I should know. The whole thing went much faster than expected.

"How many teeth did you do?" I asked when he finished.

"Five," he said.

"Wow! You are fast."

I told Patricio, in English, that I had meant to do this work a long time ago and was happy to have it done today. I think he understood, but I wish I could have said it in Spanish. I haven't studied Spanish in more than a year, and I feel badly that I haven't put in a little more effort. But I know the words I learned while sitting in Patricio's dentist chair are much more likely to be remembered than any I would learn in a classroom.

I looked at my teeth in a hand mirror shaped like a tooth and admired Patricio's work. I looked much less like a long-toothed horse, and the price was very affordable. I will be back on Monday to get the rest of my teeth fixed. And learn a few more new words about teeth.

Till next time,

Carrie

Photos and other things can be found on Facebook at CarrieClassonAuthor.

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"There will be monks here tomorrow morning," is what I figured Jorge was telling me. In Spanish, "monks" sounds like "monkeys" in English. But I was pretty sure we were not having monkeys over for breakfast.

Jorge is my landlord here in Mexico, and he speaks only Spanish to me. He will speak some English when my husband, Peter, is around. But if it's just me, he'll stick to Spanish, and I am fine with that, but it doesn't mean I get 100% of what he says.

"Very good!" I answered, because I didn't know how else to respond. Then he said something about meeting them, if I wasn't too busy.

"Oh, certainly!" I said, although I honestly had no idea what I was agreeing to. "What time tomorrow?"

"9:00."

"OK!" I said, trying to sound enthusiastic.

This sort of thing happens to me a lot. I actually speak Spanish fairly well. The problem is that Spanish speakers (like Jorge) grossly overestimate how much I understand. I can only ask someone to repeat something so many times without seeming rude or incurably stupid, or both. So, eventually, I just gather that there will be monks arriving, for some reason, and go with the flow.

Later in the day, I quizzed the kitchen staff to see if I could get more intel.

"There are monks coming in the morning?"

"Yes."

"Do they speak Spanish?"

"No."

"Do they speak English?"

"I don't think so."

"Do you know why Jorge wants me to meet the monks?"

The kitchen staff shrugged in unison.

"OK. I will just say, 'Hello, monks!'"

The kitchen staff laughed. So that was the plan.

What I know is that Jorge is always volunteering. He makes more than 100 sandwiches for children who come to visit the city from small villages every month. He sets up displays at the nearby fountain over Holy Week. He creates an enormous altar celebrating those who have died for All Souls' Day. I was sure, whatever this was about, it was something kind that Jorge had volunteered to do.

The monks showed up early. They were Buddhist monks in orange robes. Jorge was nowhere to be seen, but every other staff person was in the kitchen preparing a huge breakfast.

Peter and I cautiously approached the monks. They spoke English, as it turned out.

"Are you enjoying your stay?"

"We are enjoying it very much."

"How long will you be staying?"

"Five weeks."

"It's nice you get enough time to see the city." Everyone smiled, and Peter and I returned to our apartment.

After breakfast, they began to chant.

At least two of the monks were doing "throat singing." It is a low, growling harmonic sound that carried throughout the courtyard. (Our cat, Felix, did not like it at all, and hid under the bed.)

The procession of monks carried incense and bells up the outdoor stairs from the courtyard, past our apartment, and up to the roof. It appeared to be a kind of blessing, and one of the monks playfully splashed us with water as he passed. (Felix remained under the bed.)

And I marveled, as I so often do, how little of what happens I really understand. I don't know half of what happens at this hotel. I don't know why the monks came. I don't know what they were doing or why they were doing it.

But I know I felt good, listening to them chant, and I know when they splashed water on us, they were wishing us well. And really, that's all that matters.

Till next time,

Carrie

Photos and other things can be found on Facebook at CarrieClassonAuthor.

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So I'm doing a show after all.

The problem with me (and I might not be alone in this) is that I have a hard time imagining anything between close to perfect and nothing at all.

I'd been planning to do a first show featuring material from my columns, and it was overwhelming. A fully realized show involves a lot of preparation and getting every detail down all at once. A close-to-perfect show requires a ton of rehearsal and usually a lot of help from others to make it happen.

When I got a grasp of what "close to perfect" would involve, I realized I had set myself up for an almost impossible task. I do this with other things, large and small.

I want to stop eating sweets. But then I eat one small sweet and ruin my perfect record of no sweet eating, so I might as well have a piece of cake. What does it matter? Perfect isn't possible.

I was thinking the same way about this show. I knew I would be completely crazy if I tried to memorize 9,000 words and perform for the first time in almost five years in front of a full house with music and light cues and costume changes and a video crew catching every less-than-perfect moment. It was too much. I felt enormously relieved when it didn't come together.

But after I got to Mexico, a new idea started to emerge. What if I tried the less-than-perfect approach? What if I didn't memorize 9,000 words, but only a few hundred, and read the rest? What if I did an abbreviated sample of the show, stayed in one costume, skipped the music, and invited a few friends to come and see it for free? I would still get some video to use for promotion. It would be less than perfect, but it would happen, and I could make the next performance a bit better. And so on.

As soon as the less-than-perfect idea took hold, everything fell into place in a moment. Now I'm doing a show after all.

It's just a baby show. I'm advertising it as a "soft opening," as a "no bells or whistles" show. It will be only 30 minutes long, and I will have a videographer I just met in town, named Alejo, come to the theater to videotape. And I am very happy I am doing it.

The theater was delighted to host me. Alejo was eager and professional and affordable. Rehearsing the script was easy and stress-free because I knew I did not have to keep all those words in my head. If I needed them, they were right there in front of me.

And, best of all, it all started to sound like fun. What had seemed like a terribly scary and ambitious thing turned into a fun experiment.

"Perfection is the enemy of progress," Winston Churchill famously said. I would also add that nothing close to perfection is even possible unless I am first willing to be less than perfect.

So I am embracing less than perfect today.

And here's the funny thing: The people coming to see my less-than-perfect show seem excited. Getting in on something in the early stages, with a few bumps in the road, when everything is not all smooth and shiny, can be fun. It's new. It's fresh. It's a little scary. It's less than perfect.

I'm thinking there's a lot in my life that would be better less than perfect. I'm thinking a less-than-perfect life might be the best life of all.

Till next time,

Carrie

Photos and other things can be found on Facebook at CarrieClassonAuthor.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION