Going On A Third Date To Mexico Was The Best Thing I’ve Ever Done
So, yeah. I went on a third date to Mexico.
At least, I think I did.
The 5 days we spent there were so perfect it mayyyyy have been a dream, or I may have actually died and gone to heaven and no one bothered to tell me. Either way, I’ve been back for 48-hours and haven’t stopped grinning.
I got an incredible tan, a Mayan dreamcatcher and a really cool neon trucker hat that says “I <3 Tulum.”
And also? As it turns out, I really like the guy, which I told him one night while we were casually drinking margaritas on the beach under shooting stars (further proof that this may actually all be a dream, because there’s no way anything that romantic could possibly have been real).
Here’s the rundown of what happened, otherwise known as the BEST 21st century love story you’ve ever heard.
When we got there on day 1, I was stressed. I’m talking sweating through my all-white airplane outfit (complete with a sunhat and 4-inch heels), drinking alone at 10 in the morning, furiously texting my friends “Are you sure this was a good idea?” STRESSED. He was flying in from New York, and I was coming from Florida, so our plan was to meet at the airport in Mexico. NBD, right?
When I landed, he was nowhere to be found. My flight had gotten delayed and his phone didn’t work, so I had no way of knowing where he was. There I was, lost at Cancun baggage claim, sweating my ass off in white jeans and ridiculous high-heels, looking for a guy I BARELY knew who may have deserted me in the middle of Mexico, thinking “What the fuck have I gotten myself into?”
Thank God they sell beer at the airport.
When I finally found him and gave him a weird, shaky hug (in reality, it probably didn’t take THAT long, but it felt like forever) I started freaking out even more. Had he always been this cute? Why was I sweating so much? WHAT were we going to talk about for 5 days? It was horrible.
We had a 90-minute car ride to Tulum, during which I chugged the remaining Coronas I’d bought at baggage claim and fiddled with the radio. I should take this opportunity to note that he behaved completely normally throughout all of this and should be applauded.
The hotel, which was essentially a glorified hut, was actually incredible (Thank God — I really, really needed a win at that point). Enormous view, huge king sized bed, incredible ocean view.
As expected, though, the bathroom didn’t have a ceiling or a door. So 5 minutes after arriving, my Mexico date had the oh-so-romantic opportunity to hear me pee. Cute, huh?
When it came time to get ready for dinner, a whole new wave of panic set in. Luckily, I’d planned ahead. I’ve never gotten ready for anything in front of a boy, so I planned all my outfits (pajamas included) before I got on the plane so he wouldn’t have to watch me decide what to wear. I secretly did my makeup on the porch using a compact mirror and the flashlight on my phone. I’m sure it looked amazing.
By the time we got to dinner, I had been chugging beer, and then liquor, for hours. I was also too nervous to eat, so I was DRUNK. Like, let me tell you all my deep dark secrets and then let’s play “Never Have I Ever” drunk.
Did I say things I shouldn’t have on a third date? Maybe. Was it really necessary to tell him about the time I got arrested for skinny dipping in the ocean? Probably not. But did it help break the ice? Definitely.
The next day was New Years Eve, and after more “Never Have I Ever”-esque games on the beach and the BEST midnight kiss I have ever had (There were literal fireworks going off overhead… I was melting) all of the weirdness completely disappeared.
We woke up every morning to the sun rising over the waves, which we could see from our bed, and after an incredible breakfast laid on the beach drinking fresh pina-coladas out of coconuts all day long. We drove back and forth across Tulum’s one road in a red Camaro convertible, blasting the same Mike Posner song over and over (I got to DJ the ENTIRE time, which was maybe the real highlight of the trip), and ate at incredible restaurants. We went out to cool beach parties every night under the stars, and every single person we saw (including us…. naturally) looked like a super model.
It was the happiest I’ve ever been.
“Weren’t you NERVOUS?!” I finally asked him over our last dinner — an obscenely romantic candlelit affair in the middle of the jungle.
“Not really,” he admitted casually. “I just kind of knew it would be awesome.” (Um, now do you get why I like him so much??)
So, ok, confession time: After writing all about how important it is to “jump in!” and “take chances!”… I almost didn’t get on the plane (I know, I’m an ass hole). I sat at my gate in the Tampa airport until the last possible minute, one million “What If’s” flying through my head. Going to a foreign country and making small talk with a stranger for 5 days just sounded so…. hard. I listened to two final boarding calls, and it wasn’t until they actually CALLED MY NAME that I got up, teetering on my wedges and got on the flight.
Now, I want to go back in time, slap that scared little loser and ask her, “What the fuck are you doing?! Get your ass on the plane!”
Because, as it turns out, I was right (I usually am): In life you really, really do need to take chances, otherwise you risk missing out on something, or someone, amazing. And did I mention I got a really cool neon trucker hat?
The only problem now is deciding on what to do on date #4, because dinner and a movie clearly isn’t going to do it.