Since the goal of this site is for you guys to live vicariously through our misadventures, I though I would add a little happiness to your cold and wretched Tuesdays (especially you, weather bitching New Yorkers) by giving you a recap of the lovely weekend Drama Magnet and I spent in Antwerp.
Just two hours away from Paris, Antwerp seemed like a perfect getaway destination to a place where people speak English and cigarette smoking is not a national pastime. En plus, there is a kick-ass Dries van Noten store and a Royal Academy fashion exhibit that was bound to nourish my Instagram feed for about a week.
The city was pretty much everything we expected – clean, pretty, boring in a way that is relaxing for the first day and then starts giving you FOMO anxiety that progressively increases with every passing hour.
Saturday was spent searching for obscure hole-in the-wall concept stores and practically starving to death because Drama Magnet does not like anything to get between her and shopping. After a power nap for an evening that would require absolutely no extra power, we headed to dinner at a tiny seafood restaurant jam-packed with chummy couples who stared at us as though we were some sort of alien-prostitute hybrid that had invaded their planet.
The pinnacle of this stupendously fun night came when we decided to test our fate at Korsakov, a spot recommended to us as the crème de la crème of Antwerp bar scene. In an attempt to yield some sort of working material for all of you, dear readers, I struck up a conversation with a group of gentlemen in nearest proximity of me. Although it was pretty clear that they fell closer to my parents’ age bracket than my own, we quickly began the giant waste of time that is the Age Guessing Game – I tell you mine and you tell me yours. I politely guessed a flattering 35 to his actual 40, to which he responded by estimating me at 29 (I am 27 minus 1 week). However, he quickly distracted me by telling me the next best thing every woman wants to hear: he happened to have four children, all with the same woman, however they had never been married.
At this point TDM realized that my conversation was far more interesting than her own, and quickly jumped in with all the right questions. She asked him details about the kids, the wife that never was, the reason he had never sealed the deal. All his responses were completely ambiguous and basically came down to him never accepting responsibility for his magical sperm that had somehow spurred four living beings. As for the woman who had given birth to them, you might as well think that she had stolen said magic potion and self-implanted it, that’s how poorly he spoke of her.
Soon after, TDM gave up andimmersed herself into a budding Tinder relationship, denouncing all the remaining men at the bar as too “thin-lipped” for her liking (this is a concept I didn’t know existed until recently, but appears to be a pretty big issue for her). I managed to spill my drink, which inadvertently integrated the barman into our discourse. At a juvenile twenty-four, he appeared to be as much of a catch as the AARP set, with absolutely no interests in life besides expanding his tattoo sleeves, and seeing how long he could go without a shower. Needless to say, our night ended around 1am in the comfort of our minuscule hotel room.
On Sunday Antwerp reached another level of dead, which allowed us to eat our way to the city, occasionally sprinkling in cultural activities for good measure. The extensive time we spent in restaurants allowed The Drama Magnet to accelerate her Tinder friendship. I felt like a full participant of their budding relationship, an adopted child of sort, until he suddenly sprung a little surprise on her. It turned out that Mr. Tinder Dream Man (thick lips n all) already had two children of his. The girls were four years apart, however he had never married the mother.
On the train back to Paris, we pondered over this new predicament of the Never-Married-Father. Was it simply a right of passage we had to deal with now that we were not 22 anymore, our fishing pond dwindling with each passing year, occasionally boosted only by the leftovers of failed marriages and domestic unions? Or is it simply Europe, with its augmenting disregard towards the institution of marriage, proliferated by the image of the free-spirited feminist à la Vanessa Paradis?
And what happens if you do fall in love with somebody who has lived a real life before you, and who’s values are so vastly different from what your own? Even if he does eventually flex in the way that allows you to don your dream Marchesa, you will never be able to share those scared shitless moments of being first-time parents that make the person next to you not just the father of your child, but also your Life Partner.
I want to hear YOUR opinions guys! Tell me if I am being idealistic, over-analytical, or if I am actually on to something. In fact, lets take a poll in the comments section!
a) You’re dreaming, sista.
b) Stop thinking about it! Whatever happens, happens.
c) Hellz to the no am I playing stepmommy! Kids are enough of a pain in the ass when they are your own.