Recently, the Man of the House and I were waiting for a flight at the Cabo San Lucas airport. To pass the time, Jerrod stretched out on a row of seats, dropped his straw hat over his face, and took a nap. I walked the concourse, wandered in and out of shops, taking in the velvet sombreros, Day of the Dead folk art, tiny bottles of tequila. I stopped to stare up at the departure board.
"Where are you headed?" A young woman materialized at my elbow. She had fantastic cheekbones, a fetching gap between her two front teeth. I glanced at the lanyard around her neck, noted the airport security tag. I guessed she was someone who worked in an informational capacity. When I told her I headed to Portland she asked whether I lived there, and when I said no, France, she said "You DO NOT live in France! You're American!"
"Americans live in France," I said.
She laughed, slapped my arm. I was a hoot!
Cabo San Lucas is a mecca for hard partying, sun-loving vacationers, and pretty much everyone was dressed as if they’d come straight from the swim-up bar. Regardless of the sub-zero temperatures they were bound for, men wore board shorts and flip flops, women sported tank tops and minis, showing off their tans. I was easily the most fully dressed person on the concourse. The young woman, who introduced herself as Eva, artlessly gave me the once over, taking in my jeans, boots, sweater, and scarf. Why was I not wearing my swimsuit cover-up and a pair of Uggs, my hair in corn rows? Why was I insisting I lived in France, when there was no French destination listed on the departure board?
I would swear under oath that it was at that moment when she decided I was unhinged. This is a different from being treated as thought you’re invisible, the catch all term we use when men are no longer interested in fantasizing about hooking up. At that moment in your early middle-age, people still assume you have your marbles.
"You have such beautiful hair," Eva gushed, "and I love your scarf. Did you get it in France?"
Suddenly, a lanky co-worker with a tragic mustache and a thin scarf slung around his neck loped past.
"Charles! This woman says she lives in France."
"Of course she does, look at that beautiful scarf."
“That’s what I said!” said Eva. Then, switching gears, hand on my arm. "So, tell me, what do you worry about the most?”
That you and Charles here are going to put a bag over my head and stuff me into a trunk, I thought but didn’t say.
“Eyes? Neck? Overall skin tone?"
I turned around and saw we were standing opposite a skin care pop-up shop. The brand was unidentifiable. Before I had a chance to answer Eva said, "come with me! I'll show you something amazing! You’ll love me!”
This was doubtful. She ushered me to her station, where I sat in a green leather salon chair. As she dabbed some sticky gel around my eye area, she told me how her grandmother had been literally on the way to the plastic surgeon, but then Eva barred the door, refusing to allow her to go under the knife until she had tried this very eye treatment. Of course, it worked miracles, and she loved Eva for saving her so much money!
She then handed me a personal fan with which to dry the miraculous eye gel. “This has stem cells in it,” she said, “but don’t worry, don’t worry, no babies! We use avocados.”
She then inquired how my husband and I enjoyed our retirement in France (“we’re not retired, actually”), then popped a hand mirror in front of my face so I could see the results of the treatment. “Look how much younger you look,” she fairly shouted. (Hearing loss now added to my presumed infirmities).
“It looks good,” I said.
“And this is only 35% of how fantastic it will be if you use it once a week!”
“Wow, that’s something,” I said, beginning to lose interest in our game.
“If you used this eye treatment once a week for a year, you would never think about going to the plastic surgeon.”
“How much is it?”
She slapped my leg and laughed. “I like your style! Cutting right to the chase! Two bottles are a one-year supply, which I can give to you for $299!”
“That’s too much,” I said.
“Listen, I like you so much I’m going to do something I never do! I’m going to use my personal employee discount and give you 25% off one bottle. Does that sound like something you can do?”
“How much is it?” I asked again.
“$150, a real deal!” she said.
“But that’s not 25% off. In fact, that’s slightly more expensive than two bottles for $299.”
Once upon a time I would have leapt to reassure Eva. I probably would have bought a bottle simply to make amends for having embarrassed her for being such a bad scam artist. Had I called her out on her nonsense because she took me for an old lady losing the plot? Or maybe was it because I’ve lived in France for five years now, and no French woman, regardless of her age, would ever would allow herself to be condescended to the way Eva had condescended to me.
“Look, I don’t make the rules,” she said. The smile dropped off her face. I glimpsed her exhaustion.
“Nor can you do basic math, apparently,” I said.
“All right.” She took back the personal fan, which I’d taken a fancy to.
“How much is the fan? I’ll buy that off of you.”
Eva looked at me blankly. Then, I got to say a movie line, for which I’m grateful. “I’ll show myself out.”
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Karen, you kill me. Every. Time.
Well done!! The condescension just galls me! Ugh.