Two weeks ago, I realized that I had no idea how to dress for a wedding. To anybody who knows me, these words might seem absurd—after all, Facebook is flooded with pictures of me attending various friends’ nuptials in a parade of floor-length gowns.
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“When I grow up, I want to be a French woman.” This thought pops into my head as I stroll through Saint-Germain on a nondescript Tuesday morning, observing parisiennes “of a certain age” commencing their daily routines.
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Once upon a long time ago, my best friend met her Parisian future husband at Pastis in New York City. One week later, he presented her with her first gift: a set of Agent Provocateur lingerie, accompanied by a bouquet of roses and a bottle of champagne.
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As a single girl, I thrive on summer. It’s the one season where I have a distinct advantage over the coupled-up part of the population: the advantage of total freedom, of carefree vacation flings, of momentary lapses of judgment that make me feel eighteen all over again.
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Every few months, a friend from New York City will come visit me in Paris, and every single time, they will ask the obligatory question: “What should I bring?”
“Nothing!” I tell them, hoping that this will ensure jeans and a leather jacket while eliminating all other unnecessary cargo (and preventing a life-threatening trip down my fifth-floor walk-up in Gianvito Rossi heels). “But what if we go to dinner?” Still, nothing. “But what if I meet a guy?”Especially then, nothing.
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