Either way, I’ve enjoyed my single life here and never really felt any overwhelming pressure to find a boyfriend. It wasn’t until a few solid weeks of encouragement and guarantees that this guy was Prince Charming incarnate that I agreed to the date. My friend assured me many times that I met this guy once at a house party, something I still contest (much more vigorously after having met him).
And this is it, you think, in much the way someone feels when they solve for X in a particularly difficult equation–this is infatuation. That satisfying, fulfilling locking into place of an answer that is so simple and yet somehow takes so long to reach.
If nothing refreshes Europeans more on a humid, 85-degree day than a flat, lukewarm glass of Coke, by all means, they should drink it. We differ on many things, and I don’t begrudge them Peugeots, why would I take issue with their soft drink temperature?
1. Chloe Sevigny – First things first, hats off to anyone willing to give Vincent Gallo a beej in an already terrible movie. That girl is a trooper of the highest order, and deserves that respect. That being said, I’ve always been perplexed at the amount of undying respect and love she seems to get from the “artsy” crowd for being, at best, a mediocre actress.
And perhaps the most compelling reason to put at least some of the responsibility on women here is that often, dressing in an extremely suggestive manner can be the tipping point in a sexually charged situation. Not all sexually aggressive acts are perpetrated by a violent repeat offender hiding in an alley.
I’ve been on a fair amount of first dates in my life, some ending well, others… ending. And like any human emotional endeavor, there is a certain amount of risk involved that you will reveal your inner sociopath far sooner than intended. Having made that particular mistake myself, the following is a list I’ve compiled of things I’ve learned the hard way not to do.
And I must emphasize the someone else’s part, because the shittiest cats are always the ones that are malicious, crapping-in-your-shoes, scratching-your-calves and hissing-at-you-from-afar little monsters, yet turn into gentle, long suffering and adorable extras from an SPCA ad every time their owner comes in the room
Look, not that I need to justify myself to you, but I read all the time. I read lots of books, many of them long, most with multi-syllabic words. And like the marathon runner who keeps a rigorous diet is allowed a slice of cake every now and again, I can take my brain out of the fridge and let it sit on the counter for a while, growing spores as I soak in the obnoxious giggles of past-their-prime mean girls.
If there’s one thing I’ve noticed about many men that I haven’t personally browbeaten into submission, it’s that they don’t seem to care that much about what they wear. And the only reason I have moved to Europe is that I’m willing to sacrifice men’s charming command of my mother tongue for their ability to pair a scarf with a button-down.
I love this country, don’t get me wrong. Despite its awful reputation Stateside, there are many things about France that I find charming, amusing, or worthy of a distinct lowering of my morals (hey, fellas!). But while I’d love to pretend that Paris is the metropolitan equivalent of an Edith Piaf song dipped in chocolate, there are many things here that simply blow.