Mess by Molly

I spot him from afar, coaching a private lesson on the beachside soccer field as I pull my white mini-SUV into the gravel parking lot, spraying up tiny rocks with my entrance.   Spanish reggaeton music blares from my stereo, and I bounce out of the car, my endorphins and confidence high after an energetic spin class.  My body-hugging pink and gray yoga pants and form-fitting tank top show off my fit physique.  I haven’t so much as kissed a man since I split with my ex and left Peru eight months ago, but I feel sexy today and I like it. 

I slowly tie my shoes and prep my shaggy white and tan mini labradoodle Delly for our walk as I slyly ogle the coach.  I’m guessing he’s Latino because he doesn’t resemble the lean, sinewy, North American soccer players I worked out with at the university weight room.  His build is thicker, with tan muscular legs, solid gluteal muscles, a well-defined chest, and sculpted arms.  His sandy brown hair with hints of red peaks out from under an enormous straw sun hat, the kind my mom wore when she coached long hot days on the tennis court.   He looks like he is in his twenties, probably too young for me, so I gather the dog frisbee and wander towards the water, eying him tossing soccer balls to his protegee.  I hear Spanish and feel vindicated in my earlier hypothesis. 

Returning from the beach 45 minutes later, my adrenaline rises to see he’s still on the field.  I stop at the green water fountain adjacent to the pitch to refill Delly’s bowl taking up as much space as possible, hoping he notices me.  I stretch side to side, flipping my blond ponytail, and cooing loudly to the dog.  

Heading back to the car, I avoid the direct path along the gravel and instead take a risk. I saunter slowly alongside a narrow strip of grass adjacent to the soccer field.   Suddenly he’s right across from me, separated only by the rusty metal fence.  His magnetism pulls my nervous system into a spin cycle. 

“Hello, how are you doing today?”  he asks in accented English.

Shocked that my fantasy is now a reality, I cannot form words.  I stammer the question I had earlier, “Where are you from?”

“Ar-hen-tina,” he says. Again, with the accent that flutters my stomach.

An inner part of me gets dizzy with lust.   I’ve traveled to Argentina many times. Each time I go, I fall in love with the vibrant country and the passionate people who live there. In my early 20s on a work trip to Buenos Aires, I met Ignacio, a young telecom regulator, who volunteered to show me the sites and later professed his love to me, a princesa con pecas (freckled princess), via poetry to my Hotmail account long after I departed.  Then there was Agustin, a cable TV executive, who watched as I embarrassingly tripped and fell walking into a dark wine bar.  He chivalrously brought me a bag of ice and a glass of Malbec and we chatted the night away. Recently, during my second trip to awe-inspiring Patagonia I nearly purchased real estate, dreaming of summering there during my winter in that pristine wilderness.

As I look up at his Venusian face, again I lose the ability to create sentences, much less speak to him in Spanish which is now buried somewhere in my brain’s left hemisphere.  All I can summon is ‘muy guapo’ (very handsome).  Primal and to the point.

He grins, an easy flirty smile, and says “vos tambien”, “you too”.    

Then, I lose all nerve, walk to my car, and drive away, berating myself the entire way home, for lost opportunities.    

Except I can’t let it go.  My sexuality has been lying dormant for too long.  He’s gorgeous, athletic, and ‘officially’ made the first move by speaking to me.  But I scampered away, too shy.   Delirious self-doubting thoughts of ‘I’m too old’ dash through my head during my witching hours of 5-7 pm, the down time when I’m alone in my sobriety, lacking comfort, solidarity, and companionship.  

So, I turn to Google to search for solace. Maybe I can find him and continue the fantasy.  A variety of combinations of the sports complex where we met, soccer coach, and Argentina and up pops his personal training page complete with full name, biography, and pictures. 

I’m excited by what I find. We have a lot in common. Not only did he play professional soccer in Argentina before he was 18, but he came to the U.S. on a soccer scholarship after a knee injury.  I also played pro tennis briefly before I turned 18 and chose a college tennis scholarship over the pro circuit.  Like me, he is certified as a yoga teacher.  I imagine us on the mat together, breathing.  His credentials demonstrate he’s motivated and completes tasks, unlike my ex.    Multiple pictures of him coaching youth soccer teams show he’s responsible, good with kids, and a mentor.  The cherry on top?  He recently completed massage training school.  That could come in handy.

I’m convinced it’s synchronicity at work.  There is, however, one teeny issue. Google confirms he is years younger than me. But really, what do I have to lose? If Samantha Jones can do it, so can I. I click on the Instagram link on his webpage and hit follow.