I thought she was the one.
Drawn in by her sexy French-Canadian accent, I could only nod in wonder as her toned body worked up a sweat.
Get your mind out of the gutter you dirty pervert! I was at the gym with what I hoped was a grade one, professional moll. Or proffesiomoll ( ha ha haaaaa god I'm good.)
Mr Bodyboard and I had arrived in Lima, Peru, a couple of days ago and had been met by his Peruvian surfer friend 'Liro' and his girlfriend 'Italy' (yes, she is actually French-Canadian but if you knew what her real name was and then read that I am calling her Italy you would fall on the ground laughing, 'oh my you are so very funny! you would exclaim and then general hilarity would ensue).
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaanywho.
Surprise surprise, the boys decided to go surfing. I had been told that Milan was a surfer, but (luckily for me) after two years in Hawaii the Peruvian spring swell was a little too cold for her and she declined to join them, taking me under her wing instead.
Over the next few hours I discovered that she had dated her first surfer 5 or so years ago, and after are solid serve of sitting on the beach and taking photos she had decided to beat him at his own game and take to the waves.
Now, while she couldn't surf here because (remember - think everything she says in a sexy French accent) 'what the shit is this wet suit - I don't surf like this', she was still determined that we would not sit around 'not like the stupid girls'.
Italy had joined a gym which she went to when Liro surfed. No sitting lazily on the beach staring wistfully at the ocean for us! We were going to do a Latin American kick boxing class/treadmill run/ cycle/ salsa lesson (lead by a flamboyantly gay man in what can only be described as too much lycra and a unitard, yes it is possible and I saw it. And loved it). She moved gracefully through everything as I trailed behind growing increasingly red and sweaty. I was in total awe of her.
But.
Over the following days, each time we returned from the gym, the boys still weren't home. No matter how we chose to while away the hours, ultimately, we were still molls waiting for our surfers. I was with a grade one moll and nothing had changed.
'Zis is what it iz' Italy said waving her cigarette around in that chic French way 'Zis iz to date a surfer'.
I thought back to Sri Lanka where I had met an Israeli virgin moll on her first surf trip. She had been loitering around the town with a look of total frustration and wandering rage. One night after a few arracks (a local spirit which can be like russian roulette) I cornered her (like a super cool matador with a pissed off and scantily dressed bull)
'What the shit is this?' (ok so now switch to a sexy Israeli accent. The accent is always sexy because so are all molls)
'I have to sit on the beach and he wants that I take photos of him for hours? Is this normal?'
Pouring another arrack I lay down the facts of molling for her. I started with the basics such as always carrying a book, and led her all the way to the finer skills of exception-from-photo-taking-excuses (My total and utter adoration of your incredible stupendousness has paralyzed my hands - one of my personal favourites). She left that night relieved that she was not alone (and a little drunk), and I congratulated myself on a job well done (and politely asked the room to cease spinning)
Fast forward to Peru and I was realizing that no matter if you had no experience, like Ms Israeli, or if you're a pro like Italy, the definition of a moll doesn't change. We're all waiting for the same
mother-ruckers to come out of the ocean, and they aint returning any time soon.
So what's a moll to do? Honestly, I have no idea.
I discussed my dilemma with mr Bodyboard and he suggested that we molls choose to wait. I suggested that he had just chosen a slap in the face. He countered with 'well why don't you make us wait for you?'
Done.
In the nest few days we are embarking on a surf safari north and I will make it an experiment to see if I can reverse the molling process and make the men wait. Oh, and Italy can wait as well since she is deserting me for warmer waters. Hussy.
How am I going to do it? I have no idea. It's a little hard to say 'I'm sorry I'm not ready to leave yet because in the next 3 chapters the murder mystery will be solved and I definitely can't leave this patch of sand until I know who killed mumma Moopa and why!' Maybe it will turn into an endless game of hide-and-seek with me lying under a mossy log silently while I listen to their exasperated cries - 'Where is she? She said she's only be an hour!'
'he he he ' I will laugh, 'suckers'. Only I am stuck under a log. For hours. hmmmmmm.
Well I'll keep yall posted and welcome any suggestions for my quest for time domination. Mr Bodyboard commented that it has to be something I'm passionate about, like they are about surfing. I feel that eating copious amounts of Nutella or drinking gin and tonics for 4 hours will not be beneficial or prove a point (although I can see the fun in it and there would definitely be passion).
Remember, the molls, united, will never be defeated.
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