You Are The Walrus

Today we were once again supervising a contractor we had to hire to unravel the mess the man behind the curtain left behind for the council to fix. As a result, once again, the council president and I were standing outside at the gatehouse for several hours.

I said to the president that in times like this, I feel like the welcoming committee because we’re standing there for hours at the entrance and basically watching people come back into and leave the neighborhood, greeting them all. All I needed was a tiara and sash stating officially “Colonia Welcoming Committee,” and I could stand there waving at them Miss America style. 

To the point that some people make an effort to come over and greet us personally since we happened to be outside. That’s all great and good until one of those neighbors ended up being a man I met a week ago. The president and I were walking down the street, passing his house, and I was introduced. He was overly friendly, and later she let me in on a bit of a secret, saying that she used to work with him, and that she felt sorry for his wife, since he was a bit of a lech. 

I haven’t taken the time to explain that I’ve had to acclimate myself to the expected invasion of my personal space in Guatemala, especially by men, so let me do so now. The custom when greeting someone is to be overly friendly and press my face against theirs in a simulated (or sometimes actual) cheek kiss, and may or may not come with a hug of varying degrees. Women and men. Some men choose a handshake, but that is rare. The cheek/hug combo is all the time. I meet a stranger? Buenos dias, touch my face. Running into an acquaintance and it’s a man? Buenas tardes, and let’s get real close and personal. Altogether too much touching in my opinion, but when in Rome…

Usually, not an issue. I’m growing accustomed to the cultural expectations and daily norms. However, this morning, as we stood outside, the neighborhood lech stopped by to say hello. I watched his lumbering approach. He was so disheveled I barely recognized the man coming in our direction, slobbering over an ice cream sandwich. His saggy white T-shirt struggled to contain the belly hanging over his belt, which was doing its very best to keep his pants aloft. 

He greeted the president, and she got barely the obligatory cheek press, and that was it. Then it was my turn. As he turned to me, I could see the barely contained joy in his eyes at having me near. I could practically hear his mind salivating. I leaned in to go through the motions and step away quickly, but as soon as I started to step back, he was like “get over here”, and pulled me back to press me closer. The whole thing lasted way longer than necessary, and the only saving grace is that he didn’t grope me. It appears that gross male behavior has no age limit; on the other hand, it could just be him.

There is a literal war going on in my head all the time. I simultaneously have one emotion and another completely opposing emotion. It’s part of my midlife struggle. Part of me, the part obsessing over my age and if I appeal on the outside, was flattered that he was excited to hold me close. It took his grabbing me as unsolicited validation that I was desirable.

But the other side of me, the part that doesn’t care if I’m perceived at 50, was outraged at his overstepping and literally harassing me in public in the guise of being “friendly”. The nonchalant part of me was not amused to be handled as a commodity. That part was hella irritated that this was another instance of misogyny at its finest: A man thinking he’s entitled to access to me, despite his not being a specimen of any kind, but the walrus variety.