NB: This story is one of those random discoveries that happens when a French asshole steals your phone in the supermarket (yes, hence the Instagram hiatus) and you are forced to resort to your prehistoric iPhone 4. While randomly scrolling through your old notes and feeling bad for your former ex-boyfriend-obsessed self,  you suddenly stumble across a refreshing surprise in the form of a never-before-posted DD story. Hence, here is the story of the Australian, circa my first year in Paris.

Ah, Paul. I still sigh when I think of Paul. I would like to call him “The One That Got Away”, except that in reality, I have come to realize that Paul and I never stood much of a chance.

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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.

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When I was about eighteen, I met a Danish model named Lars at some weird hippie trade show at Javits center. We would spent long winter evenings circling Astor Place, philosophizing about life, until I would get so cold that I would hustle him into Starbucks and buy us venti Tazo teas to avoid catching pneumonia. This is when I learned an important lesson that every self-respecting female should keep close to her heart: never, ever date models.

Which is why I have nobody to blame but myself for the disaster that occurred to me this past Thursday, when I decided, in the name of exploratory research, to have drinks with a 33-year-old male model, a gem I discovered in the vast reserves of Tinder.

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The first thought that crossed my mind when my best friend got engaged 1.5 years ago was: “There’s no f*cking way in hell that I’m going to this wedding alone.”

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not one of those girls, the ones who refuse to attend social events solo, terrified of being shunned as the last single lepers standing. Come think, I don’t ever recall attending a wedding as part of couple, unless you count my girlfriend-slash-lesbian-lover, Loggy. (I’m kidding, mum.) Rather than fearing social judgment, I prefer to see weddings a prime opportunity to meet fellow singles in the magical setting of 30K flower arrangements and Frank Sinatra tunes.

However, this wedding was different. At this wedding, I would be the Maid of Honor, the secondary centerpiece of the affair, interrogated on my own romantic status by every Russian parent in the Tri-State area. En plus, given the elevated stress of hustling a wagon of Vera Wang tulle all day, I could certainly use a hand to squeeze (and hand me Klonopin when necessary).

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Up until this past January, I was practically a Tinder virgin. Despite having a steady stream of Frenchies on my roster, my only real-life encounters involved the Incredible Hulk scare and a painful Sunday coffee with an SFR technician. It was proving to be a long and boring winter, and so I decided to give it another try with a fellow we will call Cyrano de Bergerac, a nickname he earned due to the alarmingly large size of his nose.

As usual, the warning signs were there from the get-go. To start, Cyrano arrived on our date a full hour late, which I excused only because we had arranged to meet within a 200-meter radius from my house. He was very handsome – a miracle, considering that he had one of the biggest shnobels I had ever seen on a human being. Somehow, he managed to make up for it with his Tarzan-esque wavy blonde hair, light green eyes, and deep, sexy voice that I found irresistibly charming.

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Many years ago, my friends and I met a group of girls at a bachelorette party in Montreal. As the glowing bride-to-be reached her tenth kamikaze shot, she decided to volunteer a candid detail behind her love story. “I only started liking him on our fifteenth date”, she informed us, shattering our youthful beliefs about the instantaneousness of true love.

Fifteen dates?! At this point, I was giving up after fifteen minutes if a guy wasn’t piquing my interest. What about love at first sight, the once-in-a-lifetime connection, Cupid soaring through the sky and piercing his bow through two soulmates’ hearts? The story stayed with me, becoming somewhat of a barometer for how bizarre life can be.

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