Before you leave, while short term memory functions adequately, you should record the sights, sounds and smells of Cabo. To be honest, not Cabo, per se,, since you never left the confines of a little resort village called Hacienda del Mar. You didn’t even venture into Cabo San Lucas or San Jose, even though you wanted a Costco fix. The sights of Hacienda are a far cry from the view of the A321 Airbus at 25,000 feet. Most of the Baja Peninsula was nothing but foreboding — hundreds of miles of dark, mountainous wasteland. No sign of life except the occasional ATV or horse trail, snakelike, reminiscent of rattlers on the prowl. Hacienda is polar opposite — graceful, strategically-placed palms, exotic plants, bursts of color from thousands of blooms — all amid old-world, earth tone architecture. From a lounge chair by an infinity pool — one of many — you had an unobstructed, 180 degree view of The Sea of Cortez, glittering like the finest sapphire. Two hundred yards beyond the crashing surf, a humpback did its best impression of a butterfly kick. His/her companion gently rolled in the swells, glistening under the morning sun. Cynically, the pristine moment didn’t last. The distraction came in the form of a bikini clad, fifty-ish female, maybe 5′, somewhat bowlegged in an athletic sort of way, and walked like it. She was well past the age of tight buns and easily past the age of wearing a too-loose white bikini that wanted to crawl out of sight. Get a life, you muttered to yourself. These people are comfortable in their own skin, unconcerned whether or not they measure up to your standard of proper attire. Narcissistic they’re not. To prove it, along came another middle-ager — male and likely European — hips sporting a white marble bag, his “package” plainly visible to anyone daring to glance his way. You had to admire his confidence. He couldn’t see himself, of course. A pregnant-like stomach and abdomen spared him the spectacle. But not for a minute do you doubt he once was a world class, competitive swimmer — why change his dress habit? Bikini eye candy was everywhere, every day. The most stunning body (and face) was a tawny-haired creature dressed modestly, as if to prove the maxim “Less Is More.” She was a rare and welcome sight. Fixating on body types at Cabo is no different than sitting on a bench at Walmart — except that some Walmart shoppers show it all. It was easy enough to block out unsightly subjects — lie back, close your eyes and feel the featherlike breeze caress your nearly naked body (that some other nearby critic probably thought needed a tarp). “Hey, Sonny, get out — get your sister — we’re goin’ up to lunch — NOW — C’MON . . .” Mom’s decibel level fell just under that of a howitzer — loud enough to momentarily drown out the surf. You took a peek. Sure enough, she looked like a howitzer — stocky and strong — all muscle. Her kids will never be criminals. You guess New Jersey or someplace close by. Across the pool three millennials were scarfing down colorful beverages. You couldn’t help glare at the guy who was louder than the howitzer. They were 100 feet away and you thought he was addressing you — he F-bombed this and F-bombed that, issuing a staccato laugh after every sentence, like a poor imitation of Jim Carrey. You wanted to slap him silly, but then you’d have to slap his girlfriends who also reveled in vulgarity. The 9-year-olds swimming nearby either didn’t notice or were fully accustomed to ubiquitous profanity. The thought gave you pause. Once again, you made the mistake of letting minorities invade the things you see and hear — or you chose to give them precedence over the beautiful sight and sounds all around — the lovely, kind and neighborly people, a lush environment created by human hands and God’s glorious handiwork. Criticism can be addictive or at least habitual. This Eden-like place was a good time to focus on a positive outlook, to look at the greater good. These thoughts were a wave, permeating your consciousness when you heard the noise. It came from your left, close by, real close. You flinched. It was a kind of thump. No, not that. More of a grating, abrasive blast. Actually, it sounded like a massive fart. You looked at the guy lying two feet away. He was big bellied, wearing a ball cap, staring straight ahead. His wife stoically read her book. Maybe you’re wrong. Maybe something fell on the ground behind you. The belly rose and strode to the pool. You were checking emails when the belly returned. He settled in, sighed and . . . . THUMP. No! You quickly turned, looked at him fixedly. He was impassive, almost a statue. And this time, the smell of Cabo drifted my way. Your power of positive thinking immediately took a hike. Time to leave, baby. Swing your legs over — get your shoes — too late — THUMP. The damn trifecta!! One word screamed in your brain. Getthehelloutofhere. Tomorrow you will board AA 836 for Charlotte. In time, the memories of your privileged stay in Cabo will merge with other trips, losing sharp distinction. But you will precisely remember 2019, always. This will be the year you decided to adopt a more positive outlook — only to be sidetracked by the THUMP of real life. Sidetracked by a fart. Fate has a shifty sense of humor.