A few things to feel thankful for later tonight while nursing your food baby…

1. The Dbag that got away. The one you cried a river over, fully believing him to be yin to your yang, the Do to your Re, the stuffing to your turkey, the ginger beer to your Moscow Mule; the list of bad analogies goes on. Now that time has worked its magic and you see him for who he truly is, whether it’s an Unemployment Artist who would have made you pay full rent, an Eternal Bachelor who would have strung you along for years before trading you in for a younger version, or a Cross Bearer who would have made your life Lexapro – laden hell, it’s time to count your blessings and be grateful for dodging that bullet, sista!

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As any woman who has ever been on a first date can affirm, nothing feels as awkward as that Faux Wallet Move.

You know the drill. The bill comes. You fumble through your bag, halfheartedly looking for that little Comme des Garçons coin purse that holds holds your credit / debit / metro card collage, while simultaneously monitoring his actions with the vigilance of a border control officer. Will he put his card on the table and move the bill away, out of sight and out of mind? Or is he – gulp – waiting for you to actually cover your portion of your gin and tonic fiesta? You locate your card and slide it over with one hand while crossing your fingers with the other. Best case: he rejects it – you insist – he tells you that you can get him a drink later – you internally breathe a sign of relief, knowing that there is an official chance at a future. Not-so-best-case: he accepts your card – asks the server to split half way (or, even worse, cover your exact portion!) – extinguishes all budding attraction you may have had – gets written off in the “time waste” category.

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Tomorrow will mark exactly two years since I launched this blog. Like any other day of personal relevance, I remember November 16th, 2013 perfectly. It was a Sunday, a colder Sunday than the one in Paris today, a gloomier one as well. I published the first post and went to meet my friends at Musée d’Orangerie to see the Frida Khalo and Diego Rivera exhibit. We were too late to get in, so we crossed the Seine and made our way over to La Palette on the Rive Gauche. I have a photo of my friend balancing on one leg on Pont des Arts, laughing in the freezing cold.

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Shameless selfie by Caroline Owens

Stop the presses: I moved back to New York.

To say that this was a gradual process would be an understatement. For the record that nobody is keeping, I moved to Paris over the course of ten days, at the expedited speed of a truly efficient New Yorker. Three years later, I came back at the pace of a languid Parisienne, stretching the endeavor over four months, half of the time it takes an embryo to morph into a human being. I pondered, I wondered, I deliberated, I polled my friends as though the projection of a presidential election depended on it. I spent all of August alone in Paris, sitting Shiva for my imminent departure. In the beginning of September, I had a quiet good-bye dinner, boarded a plane with six bags in tow, and came back home. A month later, I was back. “For work,” I told everyone. What I meant was, “for closure”.

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This summer, I almost fell in love. This is a courageous confession and I will say no more. (Love, like sex, is mine and mine alone b*tchez!) Somewhere around month two of our cross-Channel-tryst, I started feeling it, that very familiar, endorphin-laden high that I had practically laid a crest on, gradually transforming me into a big, dumb glob of mush. For months, I wasn’t particularly good at doing anything except chatting on WhatsApp, jumping on trains for romantic getaways, daydreaming while roaming the streets, daydreaming over bucketloads of rosé and just being a giant, walking waste of space.

Yeah, summer 2015 was fun.

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Last week, my platonic life partner Danny and I were walking through the 10ème Arrondissement, when we stumbled into what appeared to be an incredible assortment of men. Handsome, tanned, toned, ripped to the point where they could be used to teach anatomy to third graders… It was the best form of a meat market, each contender a delectable piece of Kobe beef. Thirty minutes later, at Klay, I observed as French gays around me acutely cultivated their sculpted physiques, incomparable to those of their hetero voisins. Suddenly it hit me – perhaps, Paris is actually better for gay men? Curious on the topic, I gathered together my two closest gay guy friends, poured them some Moscow Mules, and interrogated them on the topic. One of them wished to remain anonymous, so we will refer to him as Bambi for his Maybelline eyelashes.

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