There are some things that I’ve gotten used to in Mexico. Lemons are green, potatoes aren’t from Idaho, water in restaurants comes in bottles, and two out of every three cars on the street are white- — the other one is likely a VW bug.  

The one thing that I don’t think I’ll ever get used to are the number of security personnel wielding assault rifles.

I mean, really.  An assault rifle at Starbucks?  Isn’t the only crime there the cost of the coffee?

Admittedly, I don’t know much about guns, so I can’t say with certainty that what I see almost every time I enter a mall, bank or parking lot are assault rifles. What I can say is that they’re big, they’re unnerving, there’s a finger near the trigger, and they’re a whole lot more intimidating than the little holstered pistol on the waist of the elderly guard at my bank in Illinois.

The sight of that bank guard back home never once kept me from sticking a few extra suckers in my purse or walking off with one of the bank’s ballpoints that quits working a few days later.

The assault rifles are a whole different story. When I’m out and about, I’m on my best behavior. I make no furtive movements, stay in crosswalks, pick up trash that isn’t even mine, keep my hands out of my pockets, and never squeeze the mangos.

Certainly they prevent me from stealing that parking spot from the guy who was there before me – even after driving around for 20 minutes in the vast Costco lot looking for a spot that won’t fulfill all of my Fitbit steps for the week. When a spot finally opens up, I make sure to stay between the lines.

Part of me knows that I should take some comfort in the guards and their big guns being out there. And maybe I would if I could just get past the tendency to hold up my arms in surrender every time I see one.

Heaven help me if a guard ever takes a step towards me as I leave Wal-Mart with a bag of groceries. I’ll be on the floor in two seconds flat. Green lemons and all.