Apology for a Third-World Affair

Bless me, America, for I have sinned. It has been 11 months since I’ve last watched Jersey Shore.

Or feigned interest in listening to white men talk football stats.

Or stuffed my face at Golden Corral.

In fact, my many issues with you as a country is the main reason why I moved to Honduras in the first place – to escape the rat race and to experience the real world, NOT the Real World. I jetted to a third world country to live in poverty and oh, it was wonderful. My dirty feet were charming, taking bucket showers was refreshing, and my Honduran city was culturally awakening.

I was in love, America. Head-over-heels, hot-faced, stupidly-speechless in love with your antithesis. I hitch-hiked down speed-limitless roads, I shared a bathroom with a rooster, I ate every meal with my fingers, and I never watched reality TV. A proverbial Brad Pitt, I broke your clean, wholesome Jennifer Aniston heart and let myself be seduced by the wild mystery of Central America’s Angelina Jolie.

It was a wild ride. But then something happened to me. I began to get a little twitch in my eyebrows around about the fifteenth time I was cut in line at the bank. I found my face getting hot as the computers at work shut off right in the middle of making a test, which of course had not been saved yet. I actually stomped angrily out of a store – the seventh store I had been to that day to try to add more minutes on my phone – when I was told for the seventh time that “today there are no minutes in all of the country. Come back tomorrow.”

It was on that day, America, as I tripped over the uneven sidewalks and dodged careless taxis just to arrive back at my house that had been without electricity for days that I came to the realization that I am American. Through tears of frustration and a fit of self realization I admitted out loud that I am an American pretending to be non-American, and oh, sweet Jesus, it felt so good.

I am a punctual, organized, efficient, pecan-pie eating, law-abiding, police-protection expecting, HBO-watching, Relay for Live-supporting American citizen who doesn’t understand why she has to pay to use a bathroom, or why said bathroom never has toilet paper, or why it takes 30 minutes to add up a check at the end of the meal, or why babies ride on speeding motorcycles or WHY GOD, WHY CAN’T I JUST GET SOME MUSTARD WITH MY FRIES INSTEAD OF MAYONNAISE.

Anyways. What I will say proudly about you, America, is that you do understand the concept of the condiment like no one else. But more importantly you understand efficiency, and expectations from the public and its officials, and the value of an education, and social services.

Sure, you may be in danger of being run by some incompetent, God-fearing crazies, and you may have a serious obesity problem, and you may have a military base on every country on earth, but Honduras could never give me that 401K like you do, or protect my civil liberties. And when I’m lying awake at night, you’re the one who gives me Netflix and Hulu pleasure.

Look, before this goes any farther, I want you to know that I regret nothing and Honduras will always have a piece of my heart. It taught me the true candid nature of the world, and gave me endless "firsts." America, I guess what I'm trying to say is, well, I'll be coming home on July 23, if you'd only let me. You're the one that I want. For you, I'd eat a Big Mac. I'd drink tap water only. I'd outsource the hell out of some cotton shirts. I'd even vote for the next American Idol for once in my life!

So whatdya say?