But your free time?

it's all free to me

I don’t date.

I haven’t been interested since 2014. Maybe sooner. The last “boyfriend” I had (can’t say that word without thinking of Cloris Leachman as Frau Blucher! in Young Frankenstein) was a disappointing, long break up in 2007. The property dividing, I was with you when you started your restaurant! (him asking for support not me) finding out he had a baby with another woman that he met at my restaurant while I was cooking in the back and supporting both of us kind of break up. I was disgusted but happy to get him out of my hair. Never again.

Life sort of stepped in during a later time in 2015 when I had a meh relationship that I could walk away from with a handshake and a good luck! wave and I never was interested in anything again. I’m sure someone reading this has had elder care in the midst of business running and tending to oneself. Some even with children. It drains the tank forever, I swear. We’ll see how I bounce back in my 60s but I don’t know. Keeping up with my feet and my grocery shopping is about all I can deal with. With no one left to care for, worry about, pay the bills of, mentor or worry about, you exhale. For like 8 years.

I can’t imagine anyone over 45 doing a dating app. How demoralizing. An optional suffering like bathing suit shopping in a tiny, poorly lit dressing room in Nova Scotia. Putting yourself through the agony for something you’ll never use. Hard, swift, permanent pass.

So I’m always shocked and amused that I get hit on in this dusty gross pueblo where I present myself mostly as dusty and gross. It’s not completely my fault, it is the literal desert, there’s usually a dust storm, the sun is sharp and unforgiving, the sea throws salt and grainy sand, I’m on foot, I have no address for deliveries and if I’m to buy clothing, offerings are glitter tees in neon pink with Bad Bunny concert dates or super tacky slut gear from the 90s.

I work with dogs, I’m often sitting on the ground or crawling around, so I’m dirty. I don’t wear makeup and I wrap my dry, sick of the brackish water hair in a dishtowel type turban thing daily. I need better lotion, I am whatever “ashy” is on white people. Chalky? I am clean, but I’m not giving the sexual vibe. Baggy pants + droopy tops that have lost their elastic years ago.

Likely there aren’t many single women in town? I don’t know. I don’t go out at night. I don’t let anyone in the house (except for the spay clinic day) and I don’t socialize or drink. I’m fine with it! I’m busy, I am a copywriter when I’m not doing dog rescue and I write bios for artists and culinary professionals and it can be time consuming but fun to find out about interesting people I’ve never met.

And let’s not forget the obvious.

I run a rescue for street dogs in a town without resources or a vet. I live with 10, maybe 13? care for dozens more out and about, and it hardly seems like I’d need to mention that this side gig takes a LOT OF MY TIME and that I haven’t left the pueblo in 967 days. But still, some people ask—-so what have you been up to? Men. Men ask stupid shit like that. Women know better.

Some goofball guy yesterday (a new arrival to town, so, shell shocked and reconsidering his contract job assignment) was asking me directions and he was a city boy from Mexico City. He was excited there was a “cosmopolitan” American to speak English with (which I rarely do because well, no one here speaks English but I’m not trying to polish my English, I’m very disinterested in speaking English to be fair while in Mexico, it’s hard enough to train my ear as it is in Sonora) after 6 whole minutes he asked why I didn’t ask him to buy me a soda or a beer? What was I doing? Did I want to hang out?

I’m WAY less cosmopolitan than this guy may think. I’m quite happy being with animals all day and cooking beans and going to bed at 9. I haven’t had a TV since the 90s. I’m not THAT type of American.

This dude was 60. A fresh 60 but I have to wonder about a fella hitting up a dusty gal walking at noon on Sunday with a rope and a slip lead in shorts with boots and vaseline under her nose from a 3 day allergy cold nose blowing week. Buy me a soda? What am I? 9?

I’m going to pick up Dusty at the carne cart and give some food to this white dog with his ear half chopped off in the vacant field at the park.

Oh. Well what do you do in your free time?

*This is where I give a free PSA to all men, Mexican and otherwise who I’m sure don’t read my blog but…read the room you dork. Offer to walk with, help, catch the dog, give the kibble, climb the fence whatever. Don’t be an obtuse baby showing your needs. Whaaaaa, this town sucks what is there to do? I need clothes pins where can I buy? Show me where you live so I can come by and visit! Oh go finish all your work so you can come listen to me talk about boring shit in Engrish in a restaurant that doesn’t exist here.

The best part about getting old? How fast I am at Shutting it Down. Nah, bro. None of that sounds good. And don’t come to my gate, it’s chaos with all the dogs that lasts for minutes. It’s a shelter. I just happen to live in there.

And free time? It’s all free time. I’m literally FREE lance and I have no one else who helps me so it’s all a hustle day. And you’re not offering me anything of interest. I feel bad that older dudes are so undesirable but grown up broads have been INVISIBLE after 34 forever, so suck it. I’m not saying I’d entertain the inane banter of a 24 year old or anything but I’d bet he’d carry that 50# bag of kibble back to the house without even flinching. And then leave. Perfect.

I’m at the age where I just want a courier. A mute with a van would be ideal. Even my delivery moto guy talks too much now. Did you like that shrimp? Oh are you making a soup? What are cooking with the liver?

Shut up.

I think back to the years when I used to get dressed up, go to clubs, look at boys, worry I wasn’t sexy, pretty, witty enough. The truth is, they just want you attentive, relatively agreeable, naked (at home). And these days? Financially solid. I likely scared guys to death at my peak. Lots of big hair, shoulder pads, fast cars, witty banter and an aggressive 80s liberated sexuality from watching too many Moonlighting episodes and wanting to look like Cybill Shepherd but quip like Bruce Willis. Exhausting.

I’m so happy to be in the elastic pants era. So the next time someone says what do I do in my free time I’m gonna tell him the truth.

I nap.