I recently realized that I’m over my ex.

Just to make it clear, we broke up exactly 3 years ago (give or take a few days), which means that I’m about 2.5 years late on this pronouncement. Just consider me a late bloomer who didn’t discover the magical forces of young love until the age of 22 and consequently took the breakup to a whole new level, embarking on an Eat Pray Love mission that led me all the way to Paris. In any case, all is well that ends well, as I am over him in a way that circa 2011 me never would have deemed possible, showing that time does indeed heal some stupidity.

Here are some telltale signs.

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Recently, one of my best friends became a man.

No, she did not undergo a sex change, cool as Lea T has made them out to be. Nor did she retire her wardrobe, predominantly comprised of Dries and (paradoxically lesbian-esque) Céline. Rather, she simply began having sex like a man – selfishly, indulgently, without any overthought or repercussions.

It all started with a Tinder date. They met up, shared a bottle of wine, she felt herself attracted to him and invited him back to her place around the corner. Two hours later, they were having the best sex of her life. The next morning, an amazing thing happened: instead of exuding the routine paranoia of a woman after a one-night-stand (“What have I done? Have I blown it? Will he call?”), she exuded the glow of a man after a great f*ck. After a day of dirty texting, they scheduled their next “date”.

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I did not make resolutions for 2015. It seemed redundant and futile, as though setting myself up for a year of continous little failures. Avoid processed sugar? Take full advantage of the gym membership that costs 1/3 of my salary? Attempt to write this marvel of a blog more than once a week? These are generic promises that I make to myself on a weekly basis, with often questionable results.

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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.

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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.) 

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The other night, I was hanging out with my girlfriends, reenacting some sad SATC-inspired scenario comprised mainly of Mirandas, when one of the Mirandas (by way of the Bronx) enriched my jargon with a beautiful expression that I previously hadn’t heard of.

Cuffing Season (via Urban Dictionary) – During the Fall and Winter months people who would normally rather be single or promiscuous find themselves along with the rest of the world desiring to be “Cuffed” or tied down by a serious relationship. The cold weather and prolonged indoor activity causes singles to become lonely and desperate to be cuffed.

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