I woke up this morning and made way to my computer, which makes mornings much more rewarding now that I live in Paris. The time difference has it so that when I sleep, the majority of my Facebook friends are awake, avoiding whatever they should be doing in their lives 9 hours behind me. They are on Facebook and communicating to... moi. I wake up with enough notifications accrued to make me feel like I have a purpose, so I make some coffee and hunker in for a full 40 minutes of work.
My friend sent a link of my blog site to her boyfriend (yes, the same blog you’re reading from now) and he wrote quite a review. I will do what movies do and just post the highlights:
"I read several of these. Your pal Abbey is a thoughtful woman with a commanding writing technique... She writes a.... I feel, is the hallmark of her abilities.”
I am very happy that this person sees my writing as so good, that it must be the hallmark of my abilities. However, here is a list of other very important qualities that I consider the hallmark of my existence as well: I have a way with oatmeal, I own a Kindle and a Macbook Pro, I have reached a higher state in meditation, I seem to be aging well, not African well, but not Scottish poor, either.
I am happy to have read such a glowing review of myself from somebody I haven’t met; made me feel a little famous. However, there is part of me (the part that needs to exist to write the following) that thinks that my friend is rubbing in my face what an attentive boyfriend she has. As if to say “you know that sweet-eyed, indolent funny boy you still swoon over? He would never write anything this nice about you.” She might be right, he says some nice stuff, but her guy typed two paragraphs, I haven’t heard my ex speak two consecutive paragraphs in the 2.5 years I’ve known him. I miss talking at him.
My isolation has me talking at a lot of bread here, and with my mouth full, no less (HOW WOODE)! I sometimes feel bad about my expanding midsection, as a result of all the baguettes I consume, and resolve to go walking. I don’t know what is wrong with the men here, but they check me out- and not in a ‘that American is letting her tum tum represent her country’ kinda way, but in a way that tells me “I can eat whatever I want when I get pregnant.” Too bad they are almost always waiters or guys being waited on, while they sit with a thin, attractive woman. She is probably saying things in French like “...so I told him I don’t care how much this fabric cost, couture does me no good unless it fits right- take it in!” I walk by feeling a little more optimistic about my romantic future in other countries or by mail- whatever it comes down to.
It almost came down to a European hello the other day when I was at my French friend’s house and a variegated gender duo dropped by shortly after me. They walked in, the woman in the lead, and thank goodness for that, because if the guy walked right up on me and leaned down to kiss both sides of this stranger’s cheeks, I might have slipped him the tongue thinking he was my soul mate. I was so confused at first, as to why this woman was about to attack me... I thought I must be sitting on her coat that she left on a previous visit. After the greeting I said “I may never get used to that,” to which she gave a smile and began speaking French to my bilingual friend from France. When you ask a French person if they speak English and they say “oui”... they speak less English than you speak French. Who needs fleshy, French friends anyway when Facebook has such gracious couples who appreciate me for who I am: blogging en Englais.
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