Sigh...

Ola my friends, mi amigos of long ago. How are you? Bien? Good.

Have you made love to a Latino man since we last spoke? Do you long for his touch, his stone washed jeans and magical loins? Bueno.

I do not write to you today with something good to say. In fact, of late, there have been tears slowly dropping and clinging to my mustache. My beautiful mustache that is so lustrous in the spring is now damp with Latino sadness. And trust me, Guatemalan tears are often cultivated by gypsies to keep raccoons away, so this is no good.

What makes this Mayan descendant fall to his knees and sob?

The women of Washington, DC. They have once again conspired to make mi vida hit the brick wall of life.

Spring is my favorite time in DC. The skirts get more colorful, shorter and tighter. The Hill interns skip and hop as they learn the business of giving and taking away hope. The Ivy-league graduates come to my city with their new business suites and glasses ready to change the world. But this year is different.

This year something has happened to my city. Is it because I have grown accustomed to the bleach blonde, madras wearing women that have flocked here over the last 8 years? Is it some kind of early swine flu that made things different? That made the women different? That made the women crazy?

El Guapo! What are you talking about???

Calma. Please. Calma. I will tell you what me cringe while I walk down the street of my fair city. I will tell you what makes me overlook the Pakistan-like terrain of the National Mall. I will tell you.

Ballerina flats.

Si, ballerina shoes. The women of DC have for some reason turned to wearing ballerina shoes. Have they done this to spite me? I think so. Is this their way of telling me that I’ve mistreated women in the past? Lo siento. En serio, I’m sorry. Please, por favor, put the heels back on. I cannot take this anymore.

Do you know what ballerina shoes do? NOTHING. They do nothing. Nada. In fact, they ruin everything. They are the footwear equivalent of sweatpants.

Every February I start to think about April. In March I start to pace around mi casa thinking about April. The skirts, the high heels, the beautifully shaped calves that have been screaming “El Guapo, I missed you so much!” Not now. Those days are gone.

Do I blame that Latino president that is in the White House (Yes, he’s part Guatemalan. No black man is that smooth)? I don’t know. I don’t want to point fingers. No fingers pointing at Obama. But there were no ugly ballerina shoes when Bush was in town. All heels. All the time.

Then Obama comes in with hope, walking on water magic Guatemalan smile and the women of DC forget about shoe etiquette. They might as well donate all their heels to charity. Their calves will never recover.

No. I’m sorry. That is wrong. While their calves will never recover, I ask that they put them in the closet to give to their daughters one day. One day, my children will ask me, “Papi, is it true what Mr. Jones said about heels? That one day women decided to ruin the world by wearing ballerina flats?” And I will say, Si. It was an ugly time.

So, basically what I’m trying to say is that our economy’s condition is based solely on the fact that women are no longer wearing heels. Want economic proof?

I’m Guatemalan. That’s my proof.

Please bring the heels back. You look horrible. Seriously.

Mucho Amor,

El Guapo