Believ-ed in Truth.

My weekend in a nutshell: sunset bus rides, pink cherry blossoms, national monuments, fresh seafood, and family. Leave out the lost wallet, ex-boyfriend sighting, and massive Sunday hangover and we have a winner.

The truth is what you believe, and I believe life can be beautiful despite itself. And so it is.

Diagnos-ed with Old Love Syndrome

Why is it that the only time we diagnose something in our lives is when we're physically unhealthy?  Perhaps that's the only time when something can be treated.  But when you think about it, aren't there a million other times in our lives when we need to recognize our symptoms, diagnose the problem, and treat it?! 

I ask you to consider the following case: 

An old lover comes back into the picture via a flirty text.  Patient A responds with an equally flirty text and continues to banter back and forth via mobile device into the late evening.  11:58pm to be exact.  The situation that caused to the initial breakup of said love affair is unclear.

Patient A presents herself to her mental health professionals--her girlfriends--and asks them to diagnose her.  Here is what they determine:

Diagnosis: Old Love syndrome
Cause: Flirty late-night text sessions, lack of closure in previous encounters
Symptoms: Incessant thoughts of getting back together with old lover; incessant self-reprimanding for thinking of getting back together with old lover; frustration about current love situation; experiences involuntary random memories of previous hookups, things said, and moments spent together
Treatment: Unfortunately, treatment for this disease is not simple.  Milder cases can be cured with a few nights on the town.  More severe cases must be isolated, tested, and treated with one of the following:

a.  a strong martini, a night out on the town, and a makeout session with a very attractive new boy.
b.  a strong martini, a night out with said love interest, and a makeout session with said lover.
c.  a strong martini, a night in with the girls, and a willingness to accept the fact that the symptoms may have been quieted for the time being, but a future late night text could potentially spark a flare up of the disease and treatment a or b must be implemented.

Please see the front desk for your prescription (vodka) and to schedule your next appointment (tonight).

Hope this helps.
Dr. -ed

What would you say if I told you I franci-ed him?

An old fling from my time in Paris sent me a note this morning and it got me nostalgic for my days in the city of love.  Why is it that the minute we have a new prospect in line, all of the exes come out of the woodwork?  Who alerts them that life may just get a little too close to perfect for an old amour, so they need to step in? Is it a test?  A reminder of all the standards we have set for the new guy?  Usually, the distraction is enough to divert my attention and make me question my current situation.

But this time was different.  There was no hesitation.  I didn't even have to think before hitting 'delete.'

Ironically, the new guy in question right now is also French.  At risk of jinxing it by saying anything more, I'll stop at: he is fantastic, and I totally "france-y" him.

Hook-ed, Lin-ed, and Sinker-ed.

I believe there are a few stages to the beginnings of every legit courtship.  Like all matters of the heart, things get messy and we play out of turn, but I believe these couple steps stand true for most, well, couples. 

• Stage 1: The Hook - Don't you love that gut feeling that tells you there's something worth exploring about a person (his smile, his corny jokes, his manners, etc.)?  The hook is not something we can plan to find (or try to ignore, for that matter..thanks, Nature!), it is simply the biological/psychological/sociological response our body and minds have to another human being.  It's beyond explanation, and it is unavoidable.  And then, I think we all know what comes next... 
• Stage 2: The Game - Just admit it.  Once you realize you're attracted to someone, you initiate the game.  Whether we like it or not, we all do.  Some have better game than others, but the fact of the matter is that we all play at some point. The minute we get hooked on someone, we go into strategy mode.  How long do I wait to call her? When do I let him kiss me? What cute little thing am I going to do to make him think I'm the best thing since pumpkin beer?  Whatever you have to do to get to step 3, we do it...and then comes...
  
• Stage 3: The Mutual Confession - From a very young age, we are taught the "Do you like me? Circle yes or no" trick.  It's an easy way to set expectations up front and prevent wasting our time on someone who is not even the slightest bit interested in us.  In a way, it is a method of self-preservation.  Sometimes the confession is just that: a direct "I like you...what do you think?" type deal.  Other times it is more subtle.  We use different words and gestures to accomplish the same goal (think arm graze, lingering stare and sometimes a 'kiss and run' tactic).  However it is accomplished, we cannot proceed until these first three steps have been taken. 
• Stage 4: The Discovery - Now that we've established I like you, and (hallelujah!) you like me back, I want to know everything about you, and for you to know everything about me.  You know what I'm talking about...the three hour dinners where you make broad statements about your past and your preferences "Have I told you about how I broke my arm in second grade?  I've always been uber-athletic" and "I like vanilla so much better than chocolate, but I'm no plain Jane."  You've told these stories to a dozen others in exactly this same setting, but for some reason, that story about your trip to Europe is brand new again.  And what's even better is, they're hooked!  You might as well be telling them the surprise ending to that new Flash Forward show.  They are completely enamored.  Not only do you verbal diarrhea all over each other (sorry for the graphic mental picture), you have to discover every inch of each others' bodies too.  It's not good enough just to hold hands, you have to trace the outline of his fingers; kissing his lips isn't good enough, you have to taste his neck, his ears, his cheeks.  And oh, those first few delicious kisses where you're not entirely sure of his next move, which in turn makes you hyper-aware of yours.  Life couldn't get any better when we're discovering new territory.  And as it goes with any unclaimed territory, we eventually need to leave our mark...
• Stage 5: The Decision - Now it's time to face the facts.  Up until this point everything has been one giant (more or less painless) social experiment.  And now it's time to evaluate the results.  We're hooked, we engage in a game of flirtation, we admit that we're enjoying ourselves, we divulge personal information and seek information in return, and now we have to decide whether it's worth it to continue onto the next step.  Sometimes this decision is easy: Heck no!  (my best friend hates him, I can't stand the way he snorts when he laughs, he releases deadly farts in his sleep, etc.)  And even though this decision doesn't always present itself so clearly, the decision to stop at stage 5 is the easier one.  Trust me.  The harder part comes when we decide that we want to enter into (cue 'Twilight Zone' theme song) STEP 6.  Because this is when things no longer are as cut and dry.  There is no rule book.  All of a sudden someone has cut the lights and we're fumbling around in the dark because no one ever exactly tells us how to keep the guy once we get him.  Everyone readily offers up advice on how to land the man of your dreams, but the scariest part about keeping him around is that there is no game, no strategy, no step-by-step guide.  He'll stick around because, well, he likes you.  And it's really that simple and really that complicated all at once.  So, if you've made the decision to dive head first into Step 6, also known as...
• Stage 6: The Unknown - ...Good luck.
  

Paris, Revisit-ed.

We met for a coffee at café Buci on the corner of my street--the only downfall of living in the best part of town is that you never venture elsewhere.  We sipped from tiny cups of dirty, bitingly sweet espressos at a cast iron table.  We both grasped madly for understanding, fumbling words and language in a way that only lovers can.  Sometimes I wonder if he would have understood if we spoke the same language—part of me thinks it would forever be lost in translation.  I loved it this way.  I hated it this way.

I arrived in Paris a different person.  I don’t mean that I changed throughout my séjour—although I did—but that I was “different” in the sense that I didn't fit the mold of the 20-something American girl looking for her soul mate—especially if he comes with a sexy accent and the dark mysterious stare that all foreign men have mastered, a stare that seams to effortlessly capture helpless, painfully gullible American women.
 
When we grew tired of translating, he suggested a walk.  Still not accustomed to the French practice of injecting oneself with an hourly dose of caffeine (it’s as if this is the only respectable French pastime besides smoking and cycling in the Tour de France), I thought a walk would sweat out some of the nervous, caffeine-induced jitters.
 
The sky threatened rain, but because the Parisian skies suggest rain nearly every day, it is never commented on.  Perhaps this is why there is a café every five steps, and why they are never empty—the Parisians need a place to duck out of the rain and drink dirty coffee and Beaujolais. 
 
As we walked he took my hand in his.  My palm was damp from humidity and sweat, but he didn’t seem to mind, or perhaps he was too polite to say anything.  He seemed perfectly content just to walk; however being the anal retentive American that I am (and always will be—even 6 months in France couldn’t change my ways) I insisted we pick a destination.
 
A friend of mine had suggested I meet him around 5 at the Panthéon for a special exhibit commemorating those who lost their lives in the Holocaust.  I phoned him to let him know I’d be joining him and then had le francais steer us toward the landmark.
 
Leisurely, we strolled past the movie theaters, talking of the films we had been meaning to see, past the McDonald’s where the line snaked out the door, and uphill past the Sorbonne where I had been taking an orientation course.
 
We turned a corner and the monumental building seemed to spring from the ground, towering over us in all of its grand glory.  Suddenly, he turned to me, breaking the silent language barrier. “It’s beautiful, no?” he asked.  I found it odd that he didn't ask this question in French, the language of love and beauty and all things spectacular. 

“Yes. Yes, it is beautiful.”
 
Just then, it began to rain.  Droplets the size of cherries fell on our foreheads, splashing at our hair lines and trickling down our faces like freshwater tears.  Clumsily, I fell into him, the tips of our noses kissing as we leaned against a building in search of shelter from the overhang.  In the time it took for our gaze to wander from each other, the rain had penetrated our beings, melting away all inhibitions.
 
“Si j’étais un vrai français, je t’embrasserais maintenant.” He whispered.
Translation:"If I was a real frenchman, I'd kiss you right now."
 
I wondered what he meant by this.  All afternoon I had teased him about the French men and their charming ways.  He pulled out my chair and I snickered, he paid the tab and I shook my head.  I told him that real romance is wasted on me.  It embarrasses me.  He seemed to think I was lying, that what I really wanted was for him to try harder. 
 
I smiled and turned to dart across the street and into the Panthéon where he held my wet coat and told me about the famous “vrai français” who were buried in its tombs.
 
Our moment outside in the rain had escaped us. So instead, I let him kiss me on the stairs of the metro station, as his cigarette burned a whole in my jacket.

Wast-ed Away.

Things I hate about being hungover:

1. The pounding headache
2. The tendency to binge eat carbs and grease
3. The "did I really do that last night?" feeling

Things I LOVE about great nights out:

1. Dirty martinis with your roommate
2. Free hot dogs that come with a cheap pitcher of beer
3. Getting told you have beautiful skin by an Adrian Grenier look-alike who then asks for your number. Yum.