Yesterday was one of those days. A mixture of ‘god moving countries is HARD’ and raging hormones meant I spent most of my day having a bit of a tantrum. As a result, I’m pretty sure The Mexican had a worse day.
It started with a Skype interview that didn’t go too well. I’m an English teacher trying to move to an online platform and while I understand that video calling is a major part of the job, I was a tad nervous as I always am with interviews. For a few different reasons, I feel that it’s safe to say they won’t be contacting me.
Anyway, I got over the interview. I’ve got a few more coming up. No biggie. The Mexican calls and asks me to run some errands for/with him. Sure!
During the errand-running I visited two different establishments where I completely failed to communicate. The Mexican had to swoop in and save me from where he was lurking in the background, probably listening to my terrible Spanish. I felt utterly stupid and embarrassed. I may have mentioned the small issue of constantly being mistaken for being Mexican. And the ensuing confusion when I can’t communicate and come across as a socially inadequate mute. Welp, today was one of those days and I was not in the mood. Ethnic ambiguity is all fun and games until you get period cramps, guys. So I went home and had a paddy.
The fix? A three hour nap! Yes I am worried that I’m regressing into a toddler.
Feeling slightly better I decided to head to yoga. I got on my pretty bike and started off on the path through the little suburb where I live. Half way down said path I come to a road crossing where there are a group of tourists about my age coming my way. Two are intertwined with each other and are wandering off on their own. One girl is shouting something unintelligible (drunk? I hope so.)
And then there’s the other guy. I’ve slowed my bike to cross and he sees me. Swinging his hips in my direction and making what he can only believe to be ‘come hither’ hand gestures, he shouts ‘OH-LAH SEN-YOREETA, COMOW ESTAAASSSS’ while screwing his face up and sticking his tongue out in the most attractive way. I slam my breaks on, open my mouth and consider screaming ‘I’M BRITISH YOU F*CKTARD’ right back at him while simultaneously hurling my pretty bike at him with some she-hulk strength. Justifiably or not, I was kind of enraged.
But then I realise this would insinuate that I have a problem with being mistaken for being Mexican. Do I? Not at all. I do have an issue with men heckling me in the street. But all-in-all, I’d much rather be mistaken as a socially inadequate, mute Mexican than be lumped in the same pile as this bloody idiot, thanks.