Little Encouragements

“Heeellloo beautiful. Oh I love you. You make my day. Even more beautiful than usual.” Sometimes it’s, “Oh my love! Hello todd-aay.” Sometimes, “Where you being mama? I misses you.” I hand him my keys every weekday morning. He gives me a valet card and holds my hand til I pull it away. He’s in his 50s, short, stout, beer-bellied, grey-haired, doesn’t speak English well, and has the nicest twinkle in his eyes.

Paco who owns the taco stand near my work- hairy, tall, thin, and barely able to do basic math to give me change – sometimes gives me a free Diet Coke because “he likes to sees me.”

I know they aren’t asking me out; we both know that. Perhaps they likes the way it makes me smile when they’re so nice. It doesn’t matter- the boost is like a quickly downed vodka-Redbull- it immediately lifts my mood and gives me energy to start the day.

Are they monogamous in his affection for me? Oh I doubt it. I’m probably the fifteenth tight-skirted, high-heeled, long-haired woman the parking man told he loves this morning. Paco the Taco guy probably gives free chips and guacamole to girls who cleave out of their shirts and give free lacy-bra glimpses while bending over to get jalapenos from the salsa bar. Paco and the parking guy can be polyamorous all day long. Unlike real love, I don’t need monogamy from those who fill my ego as part of their jobs.

In some ways the PC-requirements of being a modern-day urbanite have diminished major sources of little encouragements. OK it also diminished sexual harassment and work discrimination claims, but I digress. Having a bunch of sweltering, tight-shirted, big muscled construction workers pushing on jackhammers while hollering at me that I’m hot – at least in theory- sounds really nice. Six years ago, when I was in Italy, men shouted at me, “Bella! Bella Donna! Marry me!” Should have taken one up on it at the time!

I hold these little encouragements close to my heart, particularly when, like last week, I’d sent questions to 20 soul-mates on eharmony and only one responded. Actually, no one I sent questions to responded. Instead, Michael from Chatsworth sent me questions. I’d deleted him because his singular pictures was his corpulent self on a lazy chair, legs spread, with his package on nearly full display in tight white jeans. “This is what I’m doomed to!” I think to myself.

But my parking man thinks differently. Paco, who sometimes throws in extra cheese, doesn’t agree. He thinks I’m a goddess. And damnit, they MUST be right.