Who Wants a Mustache Ride?

I have incredible friends. End of story. No, just kidding. That would be a weak story. When Joseph and I broke up, friends supported me in different ways. Some friends lent their ears, others lent their Saturday evenings for booty shaking, one lent his frequent flier miles to visit my sister and still other friends let me borrow their condo in Cancun. Yes, you heard me correctly. Nothing heals the heart like a vacation to Cancun.

The condo is GORGEOUS. It’s very modern and tastefully decorated – the view is overlooking a vast jungle and April and I have breakfast on the balcony every morning. My friend, Sylvia, had mentioned that there wouldn’t be too many people at the resort because it was off season. She also mentioned that there would be a Canadian guy who docks his boat at the resort’s marina. That’s a start.

April and I are walking with Ernesto, the property manager, and we hear loud music coming from one of the boats down at the marina. He smiles and says “that must be Matt.” The 80s hair metal music leads us to a completely bald, porn-mustachioed -albeit attractive - guy wearing cut off jeans and a wife beater. He has an infectious smile that somehow manages to escape under the heavy ‘stache. Within minutes he’s invited us to join him and his buddy on the boat that evening. He’s even hired a crew to man the boat since he doesn’t believe in drinking and “driving.” Promising.

I know it’s going to be quite a night when April and I finish off a bottle of wine AND champagne before we even join them. I have it on good authority that Chris, mustache-man’s friend, is a talented musician so I snag my guitar on the way out the door. A crew of about four Mexican guys greet us and usher us onto the boat. Matt is whipping up margaritas and Chris lights up when he sees the guitar.

We are sitting on the top deck of the boat playing guitar, singing and drinking. April and Matt go down to get more to drink and leave me with Chris. I finish playing and singing him a song and hand him the guitar to serenade me. I didn’t originally find him attractive but after 2 glasses of champagne, 3 glasses of wine and 2 margaritas (combined with his musical talent and singing ability – I’m a sucker for musicians) I am feeling him BIG time.

I’m not proud of what happens next. Well, not that I remember much of it. We pull right up to the club, get off the boat and enter through a secret back door. VIP, y’all! There is dance music playing and I run off with April to dance on stage. I look away for literally a split second and when I turn around, April is being hoisted up by her feet into a strange dizzying contraption designed to make girls feel even more drunk than they already are. She gets spun around and somehow manages to not barf when they finally let her down. Many margaritas later and I move from "browned out" to officially blacked out. I don’t remember kissing a random Brazilian man or being told it was time to go.

Chris is nowhere to be found as we make our way back to the boat - I vaguely remember feeling bad about ignoring him once we got there. I’m not sure if it’s the alcohol (most likely, let’s be honest) or the swaying of the boat but I realize immediately that I’m going to be sick. Thank goodness I have the sense to hang my head over the side of the boat. April is rubbing my back trying to soothe me while she talks to Matt. I feel awful because I’m probably cockblocking right now and ruining their romantic moment. Nothing like the sounds of horking to put you in the mood.

The next morning I’m greeted by dehydration and a pounding headache. Oh, and guilt. Yep, and embarrassment. I’m 29 freakin’ years old and not only did I act like a complete fool but I ended the night with my head hanging off a boat throwing up. April assures me that everyone is entitled to this time, especially after a traumatic break up. Amen, sister. I do believe that’s the formula, folks. Margaritas + Cancun + mustachioed boat captain + blacked out make out sessions = pathway to healing.