Yes, I realize that this is a redundant topic and that this blog is in danger of becoming a Travelocity guide for single promiscuous globetrotters. You will have to bear with me on this one, as I recently returned from New York and am currently experiencing serious withdrawals, causing me to tear up during Project Runway zoom-ins of the Manhattan skyline. I suppose that deciphering the city’s male inhabitants is my attempt to feel closer in spirit.
Going back to New York, I occasionally question what it is that made me move to Paris in the first place. Suddenly, I’m in a legitimate first world city, with excellent customer service and people who don’t consider complaining to be a national sport! Fueled by super foods and Soul Cycle, my energy levels rise to turbo-speed, and I begin accomplishing more in one day than I do in weeks in Paris. The men, who suddenly come in all shapes and colors and sizes, provide a refreshing contrast to the monotonous Frenchies, in both their attitude and demeanor.
However, a few days into it, my acai-kale-hemp-fueled-high (what exactly is hemp, anyway?) begins to lift and I start seeing things from a slightly more sober perspective. Perhaps, the green juice really is always greener on the other side. Lets take a look.
The other day, my happily married friend sent me a picture of her adorable 6-month old baby. In a moment of hormonal weakness (tainted by being yelled at in French three consecutive times), I wrote back “I want one toooo!” This was an outburst I immediately came to regret, as the remainder of the conversation went somewhat like this:
Married Friend: “So do it! Get it done!”
(Cause its just that easy..)
MF: “Stop fucking around. Stop tindering losers.”
Me: “Ok. Give me a game plan.”
MF: “1. Move 2. Stop it with the artsy fartsy boho losers. 3. Learn how to cook. 4. Stop going out with losers!!!!!!! Stop hanging out with them stop being seen with them. This is the most vital step. It cannot be repeated enough – 2 and 4 are key.”
Of all the men out there, it appears that nobody drives women crazier than the Italians. The mere thought of them seems to send most of my girlfriends into overdrive, envisioning themselves in their own private Fellini films, falling charm to a tall, dark-haired Marcello. Personally, I remain skeptical. Something about these fellows’ seductive charm and overly confident attitude makes me mistrust them, not to mention that the lyrical falsetto makes it impossible to understand anything they are attempting to say. Why do they have to sing out all their sentences?
Perdono for the sabbatical, guys – I have been on vacation for the past two weeks, which was supposed to inspire me to write more, but has instead inspired me to drink more and completely abandon all cerebral activities. Luckily, I did happened to stumble upon a fun story, the kind of random vacation encounter that leaves one yearning for summer all year long and posting #tbt beach pics until the month of May. Said story takes place in Ibiza, the official party capital of the western hemisphere and quite possibly that Hopeless Place that Rihanna was referring to in that song. Of all the things one can find in Ibiza, non-chemically-induced love appears to be pretty low on the lists.
You know that scene from Matilda when Miss Trunchbull makes poor little Bruce Bogtrotter eat chocolate cake until he gets green in the face and prays to God that he never sees another chocolate cake again? This is exactly how I feel about my love life at the moment. Particularly, my love life in France, in conjunction to French men.
What used to be a delicacy and a delight has become an all-too-familiar routine with a predictable outcome that I do not have the energy to re-live over and over again. Not only do I not like anybody, but I have actually reached a whole new level where I don’t want to like anybody. All the guys I have met in the past few months (Tinder – 5 / real life -1) have blurred together in one uninspiring package, leaving me feeling about as emotionless as a Xanaxed-out Beverly hills housewife.