Walk With Me

 With chaos and confusion flooding our timelines and overloading our brains, it’s time for a self-serving, inane vignette from my daily life on Miami Beach. I’m determined to inspire women of an uncertain age to live authentically, unapologetically, and, above all, loudly.

(My motto is “more is more”—and I’m hearing impaired.)

After recovering from my blissful trip to visit my kids—where I pulled off the impossible feat of driving eight munchkins to Walmart’s toy section, followed by mouth-burning pizza, then ordering three overpriced Cokes at a bar near a city parking lot because my grandson needed to pee—I returned to the quiet shores of Miami Beach and my daily promenade walk. (With these precious kids, the stories write themselves.)

October is one of the calmest months, when locals get a respite from snowbirds, tourists, and the countless conventions that test even the steadiest nerves. Selfishly, I’m happiest when I don’t run into my tenth-grade teacher or my kids’ principal from circa 2005. 

 It was 80 degrees, the sun was flaunting her unfiltered glory (and, yeah, so was I), and the super-walkers had either finished or were waiting for the temperature to dip to a merciful 79.

I crept out my building’s back door in oversized sunglasses, lugging an Owala thermos that weighed more than I did and fervently hoping not to bump into the rabbi from my shul, who lives in the building. Instead, I came face-to-face with two hunky young men leaving the gym.  

Now, as a woman who has embraced aging (okay, I may have embraced it so tightly it asphyxiated), I’m comfortable being the observer and taking a back seat to the multitudes of impossibly hot young things. I’m entering my Jackie Mason/Joan Rivers era, dispensing unsolicited advice and opinions—especially when no one asks. It’s a privilege of age, and I’ve earned it.

Okay, back to the hot guys. (I’m neurodivergent; try to keep up.)

Admittedly, I’m no longer the head-turning hottie I was in my youth—before cars—but I can still carry my own thermos, my Costco haul, and a conversation. I don’t expect men who aren’t AARP members to fall at my feet, so imagine my surprise when one of them stared me down and tried to chat me up. 

(YES! I was thrilled on behalf of menopausal women worldwide. I’m such a humanitarian.)

“Hi, you live here, right?” Hunk Number One asked, flashing me a smile full of teeth that had never met a periodontist.

I resisted my usual comeback—“You tawkin’ to me?”—which achieves the double humiliation of an ancient pop-culture reference and pure silliness.

Instead, I offered a polite little grin and asked the obvious:

“How old are you?”

“Thirty-five!” he announced proudly.

“I have sons your age—and older. I’m a grandma!”

(I kept the smile modest; I need an implant, and my front tooth is chipped. Seduction has its limits.)

He remained undeterred.

“I see you all the time, and I think you’re beautiful!”

A younger woman might have rolled her eyes at the corniness. I accepted it as a public service.

“Thanks!” I said, then made a swift exit as the voice in my head cheered,

“Not today, Satan. Not today.”

Feeling satisfied with myself I walked north on the path while bicycles and skaters whizzed by.  Ten blocks in the heat and I felt someone behind me.

ANOTHER GENERIC HOT MAN.

Suddenly, he was beside me: a muscular Brazilian wearing a Star of David necklace.

For a moment, I was dumbstruck. 

Had I stumbled into a time machine and landed at the turn of the century—the 21st, thank you—or were men simply terrified of women their own age?

He slowed down to “chat” and, in broken English, told me he was Brazilian and thought I was, too.

His English was broken, but his teeth were not. Then he took my phone and tried to enter his number.

“Abuela! I’m an abuela!” I announced, playing my granny card—my reliable escape hatch from awkward situations.

“I don’t care,” he said. I waved goodbye and left him—and all that hotness—in the literal heat.

Oh, yeah. He was 35, too.

Not today, Satan—even though I do love the heat.