Meijer and the lost in translation

by now you know that I have "just one of those faces." the kind that looks like every other woman, and (apparently) I have a powerful aura--or some other type of mystical power--that imbues the message, "can't read or speak English? I'm your girl."

sure, I dabble in a couple of languages, but I've never really been comfortable with that power. in most languages there is a direct translation and, more often than not, there is a colloquial or regional translation, that usually escapes me. 

but if I'm being honest, my insecurity is mostly because of a girl named... 

Isabella. (in my head, I say her name with abhorrence. from here on out, I hope you do too.)

1988: 
I was in college living with several international roommates, one was a girl from Spain, Isabella. 

also at this time, I had been nurturing a one-sided love for about three years, he didn't know I existed, except as his buddy. *sigh* the buddy disease, aka "the friend zone."

he left college, to live in Spain, we started writing to each other (as in paper, envelopes, stamps), each of his letters ended with, "te quiero..." 

you have no idea the thrill, the zing, the heart-thudding, every time I read that simple closing salutation, "te quiero," literally translated to: "I love you." I was over the moon, until...

Isabella. she asked to read one of his letters, to see why I was so happy(!). I handed the letter off, I pointed and said (possibly squealed), "he signs it with, 'te quiero!'" 

laughter from Isabella. "In Spain, 'te quiero' is used between family members; like a brother to a sister. He doesn't love love you. He sister loves you." 

in those few seconds, I had been cured of the buddy disease; only to be reborn as a sister. 

more laughter. a lot more. but, I was grateful for her laughter, it conveniently drowned out the sound of my 💔ing.

2018: 
Meijer, the deodorant/anti-perspirant aisle. 

peripherally, I note that I'm alone in the aisle with an elderly man, who shakes his head in frustration. he reaches for deodorant, stares at it, then puts it back. 

he sees me, his eyes light up (thanks, aura!), and approaches with a stick of Dove men's deodorant. 

"fe mal? fe mal?"

I'm not positive, but what I think I'm hearing is Spanish. I freeze; suddenly on the spot to translate--correctly this time. 

I quickly run through the words-- fe literally translated means faith, mal means bad, or wrong. is he asking if the product is good? honest? or maybe if the price is reasonable? or is he asking if he should trust that it will work? 

AGGGGGHHHHH. trying to appear calm, I walk back to see what the price is, I point to it--

he shakes his head, "fe mal?" 

I got nothing.

he rakes his hand through his hair, "FE. MAL." 

I mumble, "lo siento, mi español..."

he shakes his head, "FE-MAL," then repeatedly points to me... and my boobs. "FEMAL, INGLÉS!"

💡!

Fe-mal. Female. he wanted to know if the deodorant was for women.

Isabella's laughter fills my head, as I gesture (in inglés) for him to follow me to the women's deodorant section.