I’m so sorry about the other night. I had such a great time with you and your friends, and you were so sweet to take care of me like you did.”
“ Pas de problème . I am glad you are feeling better. I was wondering if you would like to come over for dinner this week. I am a very good . . . euh . . . how do you say . . . in the kitchen?”
“Cook? You’re a good cook?”
“Yes, cook! I am a very good cook. You will let me cook for you?”
“Sure, that would be wonderful,” I said, as a memory of the last time Jeff had tried to cook for me flashed through my mind. I had walked into his apartment to find him wafting clouds of smoke out of the kitchen with an exasperated look on his face. Jeff was usually good at anything he set his mind to, but in the kitchen, he’d always been a complete disaster. I’d given him a hug before we both broke into uncontrollable laughter and Jeff reached for the phone to order us a pizza.
How could we have gone from so happy, so in love . . . to this?
“Tomorrow night at seven is good?” Luc’s voice snapped me back to reality.
“Um, yeah, that sounds great.”
“Okay, I see you then.” And with two more bisous, my charming French neighbor was off. And while I should’ve been elated that this sweet, handsome guy actually wanted to spend more time with me, instead I felt empty and wondered if I would ever feel truly happy again. Luc was great, but there was only one man I wanted, and that man had broken my heart.
I logged back into my blog to take my mind off of Jeff. I had several more hits than last time, which gave me hope. How horrible that so many women were probably going through exactly what I was feeling right at that moment. I sent another mass email to my girlfriends to remind them to check out my blog and to forward it along to women everywhere.
As a follow up to my last post, I have a few new lessons to share:
Rule # 1 - French men could care less if you make a fool out of yourself. Crying, desperate American women don’t scare them one bit. So, ladies, if you’re sick of being called “crazy” and “too emotional” by all of those American men, pack it up and move to France.
Case in Point: Half-Naked French Hottie just showed up at my door, only a couple of days after the drunken crying incident, to ask me over for dinner at his place later this week. Which brings me to my next lesson:
Rule # 2 – Do allow men to take you out on dates, cook for you, and dote on you. This is where we, women have the upper hand. Why spend our own, hard-earned cash when we could let the man pay for it? I say, make them pay! Because why the hell not?
Rule # 3 – Remember that when you are fresh out of a break-up, you will probably still think about your ex. A lot. I don’t have a fool-proof remedy for making all of your memories of him disappear, but if you are charging ahead without him, making a life for yourself and meeting new people, those heart-ripping thoughts should, over time, become fewer and far between.
And, if all else fails, have a glass of wine (or two), call one of your girlfriends, and remember that he is the one who’s missing out on the fabulous woman that you are.
***
Later that night, I headed out on my own to meet Lexi at Le Violin Dingue , a bar in the Latin Quarter. She told me that it had a good mix of Anglos and French guys and that the dance floor was wild. It sounded perfect—I was more than ready for a crazy night out on the town.
As I left the Fondation des États-Unis, I joined the large groups of international students herding down the sidewalk toward the RER station. Ahead of me, three bubbly, young girls spoke Italian and two skinny French guys, clad in tight jeans and white tennis shoes, eyed them up. I smiled to myself. Everyone here was so different from the polo-sporting, collar-popping, preppy kids back in Georgetown. It was refreshing.
We waited at the crosswalk while the spiffy new tramway that ran down
“ Pas de problème . I am glad you are feeling better. I was wondering if you would like to come over for dinner this week. I am a very good . . . euh . . . how do you say . . . in the kitchen?”
“Cook? You’re a good cook?”
“Yes, cook! I am a very good cook. You will let me cook for you?”
“Sure, that would be wonderful,” I said, as a memory of the last time Jeff had tried to cook for me flashed through my mind. I had walked into his apartment to find him wafting clouds of smoke out of the kitchen with an exasperated look on his face. Jeff was usually good at anything he set his mind to, but in the kitchen, he’d always been a complete disaster. I’d given him a hug before we both broke into uncontrollable laughter and Jeff reached for the phone to order us a pizza.
How could we have gone from so happy, so in love . . . to this?
“Tomorrow night at seven is good?” Luc’s voice snapped me back to reality.
“Um, yeah, that sounds great.”
“Okay, I see you then.” And with two more bisous, my charming French neighbor was off. And while I should’ve been elated that this sweet, handsome guy actually wanted to spend more time with me, instead I felt empty and wondered if I would ever feel truly happy again. Luc was great, but there was only one man I wanted, and that man had broken my heart.
I logged back into my blog to take my mind off of Jeff. I had several more hits than last time, which gave me hope. How horrible that so many women were probably going through exactly what I was feeling right at that moment. I sent another mass email to my girlfriends to remind them to check out my blog and to forward it along to women everywhere.
As a follow up to my last post, I have a few new lessons to share:
Rule # 1 - French men could care less if you make a fool out of yourself. Crying, desperate American women don’t scare them one bit. So, ladies, if you’re sick of being called “crazy” and “too emotional” by all of those American men, pack it up and move to France.
Case in Point: Half-Naked French Hottie just showed up at my door, only a couple of days after the drunken crying incident, to ask me over for dinner at his place later this week. Which brings me to my next lesson:
Rule # 2 – Do allow men to take you out on dates, cook for you, and dote on you. This is where we, women have the upper hand. Why spend our own, hard-earned cash when we could let the man pay for it? I say, make them pay! Because why the hell not?
Rule # 3 – Remember that when you are fresh out of a break-up, you will probably still think about your ex. A lot. I don’t have a fool-proof remedy for making all of your memories of him disappear, but if you are charging ahead without him, making a life for yourself and meeting new people, those heart-ripping thoughts should, over time, become fewer and far between.
And, if all else fails, have a glass of wine (or two), call one of your girlfriends, and remember that he is the one who’s missing out on the fabulous woman that you are.
***
Later that night, I headed out on my own to meet Lexi at Le Violin Dingue , a bar in the Latin Quarter. She told me that it had a good mix of Anglos and French guys and that the dance floor was wild. It sounded perfect—I was more than ready for a crazy night out on the town.
As I left the Fondation des États-Unis, I joined the large groups of international students herding down the sidewalk toward the RER station. Ahead of me, three bubbly, young girls spoke Italian and two skinny French guys, clad in tight jeans and white tennis shoes, eyed them up. I smiled to myself. Everyone here was so different from the polo-sporting, collar-popping, preppy kids back in Georgetown. It was refreshing.
We waited at the crosswalk while the spiffy new tramway that ran down
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