Prologue: I have always wanted to date a doctor. I don’t think this is a statement that demands much justification – doctors are sexy, their lives serve a purpose, their selfless deeds warrant them a spot in Heaven that you may get to share by association. I’m not talking about dentists and dermatologists, which are a dime a dozen – I’m referring to surgeons, the guys with higher brain capacity and willpower and stamina than the rest of us mere mortals. I’m talking about the man we can hereby refer to as… Doctor Douchebag!
Birthdays are like the Dickensian times. They are the best of times, they are the worst of times. They are the times of excessive attention and 200 Facebook notifications and Instagram collages created for hours by your smartphone-illiterate friends; they are also the times of evaluating your life accomplishments and cross-referencing them with your childhood dreams and expectations. (I was supposed to become an actress and receive my first Oscar by now. Instead I write a blog about my flailing love life.) They are the times of realizing that you no longer give a damn about half of the things you used to be so concerned about (namely what other people think about you), they are also the time of acknowledging the family of asshole-like crows feet taking up permanent residence on your face, forcing you to consider allocating some of your shoe budget towards Sisley creams that equal the GDP of Zimbabwe (not exaggerating, check it out.) If you are en couple, it is a time of romantic surprises and Cartier boxes (the imagined grass is always greener), if you are single, it’s a time of a whole lot of other trouble.
The other day, a family friend’s kid (‘kid’ being the applicable term here, as the guys is forty going on twenty-three), ended a relationship with the woman we were all praying he was finally going to settle down with. His reasoning? She had a kid. My dad, analyzing the situation, offered an interesting insight: “The problem is that you kids all become way too rational with age.” Hearing this, my mother gave me a long, pondering stare that made me realize that I was quickly becoming part of this equation.
This story happens to be an impromptu little freebie that was handed over to me by some dbag dating gods, who my must have felt my dry spell writer’s block and decided to supply me with some much-needed material.
You see, this past weekend, I attended a wedding in Boca Raton, Florida, a locale beloved by wealthy elderly Jews that I visited many years ago with my first boyfriend Jason, a nice beefy guy with a distinct Long Island accent. I never really considered returning there until the beautiful ornate invitation appeared in my mailbox, inviting me to join the happy couple at their impending nuptials. The bride, a fellow expatriate who had found love in none other than Sweden, informed me in advance that there would be exactly one single guy in attendance. Coincidentally, he happened to be her ex-boyfriend, so I decided to cross him off in advance and resigned myself to an evening of drunk celibate fun with friends. Little did I know exactly how friendly the night would be.
As formerly-fun-friends-turned-new-parents prepare to throw their children lavish first birthday parties, I have my own joyous occasion to celebrate – the one year anniversary of this blog that has, ironically, served as a highly effective form of birth control! To mark this momentum, I have decided to take you on a walk down memory, retracing the locales that have served as the backdrops of all my exuberant Parisian experiences over the past year.
(Guided tours available upon request.)