Sunglasses Always Fit

Here it really is, the story of the almost encuentro bonito.

So you understand the current State of Rachel, in order to focus on writing this, I had to minimize 32 open tabs in four separate windows. Work, school, Googling perimenopause symptoms because I’ve been bleeding for eleven days straight, which is really fun to do at any time, let alone the first two weeks of teaching a new batch of fifth graders in a foreign country. Please always remember – women do it with a broken heart, in a dress, in heels, and backwards. 

To recap:

Whilst I was schlepping up a million steps to an obscure chapel in Chiapas, sans makeup or desire to make any local friends, a hot, young guy said something to me from his casual grey sweatpants stretching stance on a bench. Imminent rain on the horizon, and knowing I had put no effort into my appearance that day, I smiled but pretty much ignored his salutations and kept up my schlep to the door of the church on top of the hill. 

There was not a whole lot to see at the top, weather and all, so I surveyed quickly and then, wary of the drops I was beginning to feel, turned to make my way back down. 

Against all odds, he was actually cuter the second time around, waiting for me in a non-creepy way about half-way down the 200-something steps I had to take to get back to street level. This time when he stood up and approached me, I paused Chappell Roan long enough to hear what he had to say. 

I’ll translate every bit of awkwardness so you, too, can feel the pain it is to be single and attracted to men in the year 2025 of our Lord. But this Mexican did a few things right:

Him: “Hi! Hi there.”

Me: “Hiiiiiii. . .  . . . hi?!” (Looking around, making sure this is to me)

Him: “It’s beautiful up here, right?”

Me: (oh, god . . . serial killer? Catfish? Am I being punked?) “Yes! So nice. But it’s getting cold!”

Him: “Actually, I was wondering . . . “

Me: starting to haul ass down the stairs as the rain gets heavier . . . but I’m a woman and polite and there’s a densely wooded area off to the side of us that I’m not sure I could fight my way out of. I spare a look back over my shoulder and well, he’s not hard to look at .so . . “Yeees?”

Him: “So, (cough) would it be possible, ah, I mean, maybe, it could be, for you to give me your number and we could meet later to get to know each other?”

Me: (I might have short-circuited.) “ . . . um . . . what?“

Him: “It’s just, when I first saw you, walking up here, I felt a connection, you’re so beautiful, and I think we should spend some time together.”

Me: “ . . . um . . . “

I can still see myself paused between steps. I can feel the way my face went “huh?” and the giggle threatening to emerge. Surely, this boy-child has made a mistake. He had to be ten years younger than me, if not more. My most recent internet inquiries are about retinol, how to best store sourdough in a one-person household, and retirement planning. These are not the footloose and fancy-free Googles of a woman in a foreign town who would meet a stranger for a drink. 

Me: “ . . . um, it’s just, that’s so nice, but this is my last day, and I have plans, places to go, people to see . . . so . . .”

He stepped closer, and was even cuter in proximity. He scratched the back of his neck, shy. The way my body warmed to his sweeping gaze helped nothing at all. “Ah, but, you must have time for a coffee? The rain is about to really come down,” he observed. 

This is where I let intrusive thoughts win. Because I did, in fact, have time for a coffee. But I also had laundry to pick up, pro-Palestine vegan cafes to visit, quickly made and forgotten hostel friends to say goodbye to, wine to drink and a book to read. He was local, younger than me, here in Chiapas and I knew the hours and the mileage and the price points between us that were already obstacles in my (sometimes) practical mind. So I did the “it’s not you, it’s me.”

Me: “No, nonono it would be a waste of your time, this is my last day, I’m leaving at 5 in the morning . . .”

Him: “We should take advantage! I’ll show you around, let’s spend your last few hours in a beautiful way together! Please!”

I decided that either he had a visual impairment, was an unwitting participant in a dare from friends a la “She’s All That” or any other terrible rom-com from the early naughts, or was into a kink I wasn’t willing to explore further with him. I was clearly older, a tourist, on a mission to visit some sites, yeah. 

Me: “Look, I’m flattered but I have plans for the day to see things, and spend time with friends who are leaving tonight, and it’s starting to rain, and it’s my last day here, so – “

Him: “Your last day?! What a shame, you have been here all this time, how long?” he said, gripping my hand. (I want to reiterate that I am translating this all from the Spanish, and by God, some things are WAY sexier in Spanish. Believe me when I say that this was all knees-melting sexy). 

Me: “Yes . . . a week, so – “

Him: “A week? And I just met you now!” he lamented.

This flirty exchange went on for a few minutes. I battled the allure of his deep brown eyes, his offer to show me things the tour guides never could (Yeah, I’ll bet, but no woman in her right mind enters a forest with a stranger), and the flutter in my chest at being actively wanted for the first time in a long time.

In the end, having listened/watched too much true crime and experienced enough on my own of terrible men, I offered my instagram, but not my number. I promised if I finished all I had to do, I would think about meeting up with him later.

Friends – I practically floated back to my hostel on the attention high, grabbed the laundry, flung myself backwards onto the bed like “did I just – was that – ?” Immediately, because I am chronically online and need to crowd-source all experiences and decisions, posted several stories in a row about what had just happened, asking for advice on what to do – meet him or not. 

AND THEN. TWENTY MINUTES LATER. Realized that the one method I had given him to communicate with me? WAS MY INSTAGRAM!!!!

In a full body sweat, fingers shaking, I went to see if he had already followed me and watched the stories where I detailed the possible meet cute and asked people to TELL ME WHAT TO DO like I am not the independent feminist that I am. And. He. Had. Seen.

I died a tiny death of interweb mortification. 

AH. But ?! . . . maybe he doesn’t know English?! There is hope!

I deleted the stories, then reposted to close friends, obviously, let the sweat cool in a shower, got dressed, and took myself to the cafe I’d promised past Rachel for a green juice and some vegetables, but then pretty quickly turned to red wine and journaling once the rain started falling harder and I knew I’d be stuck for a while. I needed to ponder. 

This boy seemed young, but sweet, and after a few back and forth chats, had established he had no problem with my age, and didn’t think I should invite one, either. But I hesitated. At 25, he’s just a year older than one of my baby brothers, younger than some of my former students, and was an infant during moments that were major life events for me. 

Buuuuut he also thought I was hot. 

One amazing salad and two glasses of wine later, my phone roasting in my hand from instagram’s opinions on what I should do and several chats back and forth with him, I decided to wander, to amble, to casually walk through the plaza he had said he was going to that evening. And if God in all her wisdom caused us to bump into each other again, then I could see some more about Fate. 

Friends – I walked slowly. Twice. Spent my pesos down to the last ones on things I didn’t need, and still didn’t see him. I ended up back at my hostel, digging through pockets to find more cash, and leaving my phone in my room to buy goodbye beers to the Aussies I’d befriended and share the story of my whirlwind day. I came back to more messages from him, begging for just five minutes to meet up. If I hadn’t had a five am pickup to head back to Guatemala . . . who knows what I would have said? I do know what MANY of you were suggesting! And I love you for it. 

The one-sided flirty banter via Instagram has continued, complete with some truly young monkey-face emojis. I kind of love it. I’ve told him that if he ever makes it to my neck of the woods, I’d entertain a meet-up, which I know will never happen. And he tells me that “you have no idea how much I like you” every time I post a selfie. So. Seems like a good fit. 

I haven’t missed being catcalled, unwanted attention or aggression from men – that never happens in Guatemala and rarely in Hong Kong, and I’m grateful. It was nice and a self-esteem boost to think that anyone might think I’m still cute enough to stop on the street and try to get my number in such a respectful and charming way . . . So. I guess I’ve still got it? Apparently there’s a whole genre on Tiktok of older women really happy with younger men I can explore for inspiration . . .

PS I’m typing this dressed in a shark blanket onesie. So. If I’ve got it, I’ll take it.