the mating game
We’re gliding along the Seine, the wind whipping at my face.
My hands are clutching tightly to the back of the motorbike as I try to hold my body up as straight as possible.
He reaches behind and puts my arms around him. I lean in more comfortably.
I’ve spent the night trying to decide whether my male fashionista friend with the stylish motorbike is gay or not. At this point, I’m leaning towards not.
When he drops me off in my chic arrondissement, a parallel from my small nanny room, he leans in to kiss me, and I know he’s not.
When I enter my apartment building I look over at the large hallway mirror and shrug my shoulders at my reflection.
Am I interested? Not sure. How is he not gay? He’s charming, and I like the intensity of his face, his style and his taste, but can I really date a guy who’s thinner and more fashionable than I am?
And who am I to lay my lips on someone, when just the day before they were kissing another?
Relationships are not my forte. I’m fussy and unpredictable. I want everything I can’t have. I hate it when it’s not good enough, and become afraid when it’s too good.
But these days men are entering my life in a wave. My heart sits still, but my curiosity leads me into hearing them out, enjoying the attention and affection.
Thirty-six years ago today my parents were married.
Their relationship isn’t flawless, but it is open, accepting, loving, thoughtful and forgiving.
I’ve seen my mother walk out of the room fuming at my father, I’ve seen them throw words at each other, and I’m aware that they spend a lot of time apart.
But they love each other. They accept one another and leave room for breathing. I’ve seen my father stare at my mother in as if she was Stevie Wonder, only sexier, and with a nice rack to boot. I’ve heard my mother speak so tenderly of my father that I can’t help but love him more.
They say women tend to go for men that are like their father. And although I’m not on the lookout for a sound mixer with my face, I do search for his qualities, for men that are genuine, easy going, lovers of food and music; men that can love me without smothering me.
And so tonight I sit on my balcony, gracefully covered in pigeon shit, and drink a glass of wine in their name.
Cheers, to two beautiful people, and to the fact that someday I might find someone that I can love too.
My hands are clutching tightly to the back of the motorbike as I try to hold my body up as straight as possible.
He reaches behind and puts my arms around him. I lean in more comfortably.
I’ve spent the night trying to decide whether my male fashionista friend with the stylish motorbike is gay or not. At this point, I’m leaning towards not.
When he drops me off in my chic arrondissement, a parallel from my small nanny room, he leans in to kiss me, and I know he’s not.
When I enter my apartment building I look over at the large hallway mirror and shrug my shoulders at my reflection.
Am I interested? Not sure. How is he not gay? He’s charming, and I like the intensity of his face, his style and his taste, but can I really date a guy who’s thinner and more fashionable than I am?
And who am I to lay my lips on someone, when just the day before they were kissing another?
Relationships are not my forte. I’m fussy and unpredictable. I want everything I can’t have. I hate it when it’s not good enough, and become afraid when it’s too good.
But these days men are entering my life in a wave. My heart sits still, but my curiosity leads me into hearing them out, enjoying the attention and affection.
Thirty-six years ago today my parents were married.
Their relationship isn’t flawless, but it is open, accepting, loving, thoughtful and forgiving.
I’ve seen my mother walk out of the room fuming at my father, I’ve seen them throw words at each other, and I’m aware that they spend a lot of time apart.
But they love each other. They accept one another and leave room for breathing. I’ve seen my father stare at my mother in as if she was Stevie Wonder, only sexier, and with a nice rack to boot. I’ve heard my mother speak so tenderly of my father that I can’t help but love him more.
They say women tend to go for men that are like their father. And although I’m not on the lookout for a sound mixer with my face, I do search for his qualities, for men that are genuine, easy going, lovers of food and music; men that can love me without smothering me.
And so tonight I sit on my balcony, gracefully covered in pigeon shit, and drink a glass of wine in their name.
Cheers, to two beautiful people, and to the fact that someday I might find someone that I can love too.
posted by Gillian Young at 11:45 AM
7 Comments:
This literally brought tears to my eyes. So touching. I have no doubt you will find someone to love, not only do you have a good example to follow but you have talent, beauty and a passion for life as well.
That's totally funny about dating a guy who's thinner and more fashionable than you lol. I'm not sure I could do it
I'm afraid you're proving out the old maxim of blondes having more fun... LOL!
I think, in fact, that you've had more fun in the last two posts than I can scarcely remember. So good for you!
Seems to me you're building up a store of memories for rainier days ahead. I mean, logically just consider the facts.
Summertime
Paris
Young
Blonde
Beautiful
Talented
Insightful
Adventurous
Expressive
Passionate
Articulate
It's like the bubbling top of a fountain that can't reach any further towards the sky.
Anyhow, thanks for the great posts.
A Moveable Feast on a Vespa through the darkening streets of Paris on a summer night. One simply cannot find this quality of experience on the Paris Photo a Day blog!
Thanks..
:0)
G:
You have to extend your stay one more year! It's too soon to go back. Your last two entries were positively dreamy. Had to sigh out loud reading them. Stay, stay, stay. I only get over once a year and I need your photos and entries to keep my Paris addiction fed!
C'est beau ! Comme toujours !
Florent.
i think you learned more this year than you ever will in Toronto. Have you considered that? You've certainly learned more about writing, rhythm and cadence.
My personal philosophy is never to be with someone who spends more time in front of the mirror than moi. Or eats fewer croissant. Then again, if this guy has a stylish motorbike, you might want to keep him around... I'm a sucker for those.
Wow, such wonderful comments. You beautiful strangers are sweet encouragement to a doubtful writer.
Stay in Paris? Oh it's tempting, and although I'm leaving, something tells me I'll be back.
And yes, I've learnt more this year than I ever expected. I'm in awe of the entire experience and where it's taken me.
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