men and onions make me cry

I didn't sleep very well last night. My head ached, my nerves were shot, and everytime I went to the bathroom I turned on every light, looked far down the hallway, and had my cell phone in hand, just in case.

I sent a message to the young man causing me grief, and basically said that I didn't want to be his friend, that he made me uneasy, and that I didn't want to see him ever again.

In the morning I spoke to the woman I work for. She is a hard headed business woman and a quick thinker. She got the painter's number from me, called her husband, and made him call the guy to tell him that he couldn't ever see me again, and that if he attempted to, his company would be called and he would be fired from his job. I was later told that he seemed understanding, that he said he had gotten my message and was going to leave me alone.

But she also went over a few things with me.

For one thing she said that in France you don't mix with people who are of a lower class than you. That a girl like me wasn't to make friends with a painter.

I protested. I have done painting jobs, I have friends that are painters, and I have made good friends with proffessional painters. She told me that it must've been an exception. That it's okay if it's a student working as a painter on the side, but not if it's their job. "But..." I protested as she continued.

She then told me that I dressed too sexy, nodding at my low rise jeans and tank top. "French women dress chic, but not sexy. It sends out a bad image."

She was giving me advice. Honest advice. She is straightforward. She told me I shouldn't talk to strangers, or give out my number.

But my hopes and heart hit the floor. My eyes started to water. She rubbed my back. "What is it that you're afraid? Lonely?" She asked. "It's all of it," I answered.

I stood there, feeling dumb, naive, and underly dressed. I thought I had been doing so well by leaving my short skirts tucked away under my bed.

I stood there feeling like Paris was up against me. Like everything I believed in wasn't accepted here. I don't believe in class systems, judging or labelling people, and I like to wear whatever I feel good in.

I went to the grocery store with red eyes, bought myself some cereal, went home and fed myself.

I cried again later, but that's only because I was cutting onions to make an onion tart. I cut more onions than I have in years-my eyes are extremely sensitive to them-telling myself I had to learn to handle pain.

The onion tart, baked with tears, was delicious. Even if the kids hated it.