The other day, my happily married friend sent me a picture of her adorable 6-month old baby. In a moment of hormonal weakness (tainted by being yelled at in French three consecutive times), I wrote back “I want one toooo!” This was an outburst I immediately came to regret, as the remainder of the conversation went somewhat like this:

Married Friend: “So do it! Get it done!”

(Cause its just that easy..) 

Me: “How?!”

MF: “Stop fucking around. Stop tindering losers.”

Me: “Ok. Give me a game plan.”

MF: “1. Move 2. Stop it with the artsy fartsy boho losers. 3. Learn how to cook. 4. Stop going out with losers!!!!!!! Stop hanging out with them stop being seen with them. This is the most vital step. It cannot be repeated enough – 2 and 4 are key.”

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Of all the men on the planet, it appears that nobody drives women crazy like the Italians. The mere thought of a trip to Italy seems to send most of my girlfriends into daydream overdrive, as they envision themselves  succumbing to the charms of a tall, dark-haired Fellini hero. Personally, I remain skeptical. Something about these fellows’ overly confident attitude makes me mistrust them, not to mention that the lyrical falsetto makes it impossible to understand anything they are attempting to say. Why do they have to sing out all their sentences?

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You know that scene from Matilda when Miss Trunchbull makes poor little Bruce Bogtrotter eat chocolate cake until he gets green in the face and prays to God that he never sees another chocolate cake again? This is exactly how I feel about my love life at the moment. Particularly, my love life in France, in conjunction to French men.

What used to be a delicacy and a delight has become an all-too-familiar routine with a predictable outcome that I do not have the energy to re-live over and over again. Not only do I not like anybody, but I have actually reached a whole new level where I don’t want to like anybody. All the guys I have met in the past few months (Tinder – 5 / real life -1) have blurred together in one uninspiring package, leaving me feeling about as emotionless as a Xanaxed-out Beverly hills housewife.

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Judging by the New York Times bestseller list alone, it appears that the whole world is fascinated by the mystery that is the French woman. How is she so skinny? How are her kids so well-behaved? Is she actually sort of a bitch?

The other night over drinks, I gave one of my French girlfriends free reign of my Tinder. I am not exaggerating when I tell you that every guy she spoke in the course of two hours ended up falling in love with the French version of me. The French version of me did not over type, she did not over share, she exuded an aura of mystery by keeping her answers short, yet never appearing rude. Reading back the messages, I myself started growing intimidated by this alluring creature of so few words, yet seemingly so much substance.

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Once upon a time when I was about 20, I had an older boyfriend named Jeff. Jeff was a handsome 33-year-old Jewish guy from Long Island with a penchant for all things GTL. (For those living under a pop culture rock, this stands for “gym, tan, laundry”, an acronym penned by Jersey Shore.) Apart from his considerable cultural deficit, Jeff was, by definition, everything you would consider a “good catch”: good-looking, family-oriented, and relatively successful, with a number of retail businesses to support a brood of spoiled brats.

While I was way too young to consider anything serious with Jeff, I was certain that, sometime within the next few years, he would settle down with a minute Jewish girl who would annually pop him out cute Sephardic babies in exchange for red Cartier (push) gift boxes.

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