I told my son, “Manifesting is like ordering a sub from a Universal Deli Counter: you don’t say ‘food,’ you say exactly what you want — turkey, lettuce, toasted whole wheat, extra pickles, hold the mayo.”

I rambled on through his eye roll, “The Universe doesn’t do nuance; it gives what you focus on.”

“Then explain accidents, illness, mass shootings,” he said.

“That’s not manifesting, that’s being human. The Universe outsources to the Karmic Chaos Division,” and with that, he specifically manifested a mom with a mute button.

I knew the power of vague manifesting — our honeymoon was a perfect exercise in wishful ambiguity.

–

Family Ties

–

Aunt Sally Seymour was a travel agent in the late 1990s with a sharp sense of humor.

“Aunt Sally’s got us a great package,” Kris said. “Flight, a tropical location, oceanfront hotel — OK if we find out the destination three days before?”

“Yes. Beach,” I said, my mind elsewhere.

Two weeks later, Kris and I arrived at a stunning terracotta hotel in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. Friendly couples by the pool waved hello. We were body surfing within 20 minutes. Aunt Sally for the win!

That night we played cards on the patio with a gorgeous sun kissed couple from Detroit, Nicole and Harrison, and a bunch of their friends who fell off the cover of Vogue.

With zero ability to just lounge, we spent the week feeding fat beach dogs, befriending the staff, haggling at the market and finding hole-in-the-wall restaurants. There was always a scene at the hotel pool, but we politely dodged random invites happily in our newlywed love bubble. On our last night, I made dinner reservations, imagining dim lights and a mariachi band in tuxedos, serenading us sotto voce with classical guitar.

–

Arriba!

–

We arrived at a vast open-air hall, packed with 30-foot tables. Onstage, a woman wailed about her dead lover. Kids ran with sparklers. We nibbled spicy dishes beside a bewildered German family, watching juggling, dancing and odd comedy — half convinced we’d wandered into a fever dream. The guests clapped through a series of cringe-worthy antics; then the finale began.

Two donkeys appeared on stage. The emcee lured volunteers to win an “incredible prize” in an “Authentic Arrriba Singing Contest.” Soon, nine souls faced the crowd, penitent for their sins.

“One more, no?” the emcee said behind our table. I examined my cuticles. A hand touched my shoulder: “Seora, you sing! Si?” he asked, I shook my head. No. Hard no. But a mass of relieved, clapping guests yelled “Si!” — including my husband.

If you’ve never stood next to an annoyed donkey under a thousand twinkling lights on stage in Mexico, facing an audience of overfed, inebriated tourists, pelted by the cacophony of a 10-piece mariachi band, I can clarify: It was a melt-into-the-floor moment. Shielding my eyes from the blinding spotlight, I spotted my husband’s camera poised to capture my humiliation — otherwise known as Exhibit A in our divorce proceedings.

The first contestant sang. The second was better, the third inaudible. What was the prize, a lifetime supply of salsa? Then smiling, Number Nine took the mic, and delivered a flawless 30-second “Ariiiba” ending in an ear shattering high note.

I resigned myself, directing my rubbery legs toward the mic. Hand on my belly, I channeled my elementary choir director, Helen Demong, who taught us to sing from the diaphragm. “ARRRRIIII–”

Then everything happened in blurred slow motion. First, I spotted Handsome Harrison — holding hands with a Vogue model in the front row. Where was his wife, Nicole?

The donkey by me brayed, bit its handler, lunged off the stage and bolted to the Tres Leches dessert table. The handler yelled, “AYE! No otra vez!” (Not again!), and chased after it. I finished singing, as the happily-eating, icing-smeared donkey kicked wildly at the fleeing guests.

Kris wore my second place sombrero back to the hotel. “Guess who was in the front row?” I said. “Handsome Harrison — but he was holding hands with someone else.”

“He was? Weird … wait,” Kris said with the expression of being clubbed on the head. “When Aunt Sally asked about hotel preference we said, ‘Something nice on the beach,’ right?”

Our hotel had no families, lots of friendly couples offering random invites we turned down. I blinked. “Nah … wait … do you think –”

He said, “Oh, Aunt Sally!”

That’s the thing about manifesting: Be clear or the Universe will fill in the blanks. You might end up in paradise, onstage with a donkey, where the beach isn’t the only thing that’s open.