Sometimes when you think things can’t get any worse, they do.  I’ve been feeling somewhat out of sorts all year, with the heart thing and all.  Then, the past two weeks I’ve been fighting the flu.  OK, it’s probably just a cold, but that sounds so lame.  This has been a full-blown, sore throat, low-grade fever, runny nose, stuffy nose, coughing mess.  I’ve been confined to my house mostly.  I don’t want to infect anyone else, and quite frankly, I am too disgusting to be out in public. Besides the sniffling, coughing, hacking, honking, gross shit I’m doing, I have two raw sores under my nostrils from the incessant blowing. Like my mother used to say, I’d have to feel better to die.

We’re only in Carmel for a few more days, so I decided to muster all my strength and take a walk along Scenic Drive overlooking Carmel Bay. If that can’t get your spirits up, I don’t know what can.  I changed from the pajamas I’ve been living in all week to some Target sweatpants and a hoodie.  I donned a pink bucket hat and sun glasses, a fanny pack and some tunes.  Off I went.  I had to sit down to rest every so often, but so what.  The view is killer.

I was on the return part of my route.  I was considering whether or not to spit.  Carmel probably has spit police like Hong Kong or is it Singapore? Plus, it’s OK for runners to spit, but I was barely walking, more like strolling. Even for a Wednesday, there was a beehive of activity.  A FedEx driver was taking a break, enjoying the scenery. Cars lined the street, filled with day trippers and walkers like me. I decided not to spit. Over the music in my ear buds, I heard someone say “you’re gorgeous.”  I figured it was a young couple enjoying the late afternoon sunshine. This is one of the most romantic spots on the planet.  I sat down to catch my breath and to take in the view. A guy was running toward me, saying something.  I took my head phones off and he said, “didn’t you hear me?”  “No, what? Are you talking to me?”  He said,” you’re beautiful. When you walked by my car, I called out.  You’re gorgeous”.  “Oh, I did hear that,” I confessed.  “I didn’t realize you were talking to me.”

“I’m Michael”.  He extended his hand and we shook.  I told him my name. His opening line was about my accent. Not a bad pick up line.  I told him the accent was from Tennessee, even though I’ve lived in Texas most of my adult life.  He asked what I did and I told him I was retired from banking. He said I looked too young to be retired.  I coyly said I was older than I looked.  He said he was 40 and I couldn’t be that old.  I said, try adding 20 years. ha ha.  (more like 17, but I was light-headed).  We chatted for a few minutes. I was enjoying it, probably too much.  How long should I let this go on? I finally said, “I’m retired from banking and I’m a house wife.”  “Oh, you’re married.”  “Yes, I’m married.” He excused himself and I completed my walk.

My head was spinning.  How long had it been since someone tried to pick me up?  A long time.  I think the last time it happened was at Costco. This was better. But it was scary, really. How this stranger had so much power over me.  How he made me feel so special, so alive.  How I probably talked a couple of minutes too long before confessing that I’m married. How flattered I was. How the beautiful setting intensified the whole thing. Then the skeptical part of me kicked in. I felt used, targeted, stupid.  Was I that easy a mark? Does this guy come here every day? How often does he get lucky? Maybe he’s a serial killer.

Or maybe he’s just a nice guy who liked what he saw. Maybe I’ve still got it. Maybe things are about to get better. Maybe I need to hear those words more often.