Fever, fever, fever

It's a day from being exactly a month from the last time I posted and so much as happened.  Lately I've been asked why exactly it is that I've never gone out with anyone in the US, never kissed anyone.. nothing.  My response always starts off with "well, it's not that I haven't been asked out, I just wasn't interested enough." I'm picky, it's true; I admit it. So what, right? 

So when the silly business with the French guy from the club occurred my senses were flabbergasted -- completely annihilated by the opening of this new, bizarre chapter in my life, as well as the alcohol that interrupted my rationality.  (Un)Fortunately whatever part of me that says "no" to everyone gave me that uneasy feeling that it wouldn't work out, so I ignored him until he moved on.  I say "whatever" part of me because, quite frankly, I have no idea what it is that makes me instantly recoil from people, feel uncomfortable even though I might perhaps be interested.  The only conclusion I can come to is from Vicky Cristina Barcelona, "I know what I don't want but I have no idea what I do want." 

Well, I've just gotten an amazing taste of it, and all the waiting and confusion and loneliness I've experienced where I've needed and longed for someone to talk to makes sense and was well worth it, well worth him.  How it is funny though that he is not what I superficially and subconsciously came here looking for: not French, doesn't speak French, nothing at all about him is French.  By contrast, everything about him is what I want, like, think about, dream about, imagined in my head but concluded wasn't likely.  None of the micky mouse bullshit I'm so use to dealing with: "Does he like me? Should I call him? How should I act?" -- none.  This is the most instantly satisfying relationship I've ever had with anyone that lacks the "it's too good to be true" aspect because there are already obvious parts of this that make it dreadful and sad that will come later and very soon, but still worth it. 

So, instead of a Frenchie who I have to struggle to understand and talk to, I have my super sweet, sexy, funny, Irish writer who I still have to struggle to understand, but who seems to have been ripped from any fantasy I've ever had of what I want in someone, although they've been so vague and uncertain. 

So I can officially say I've found "love" in Paris, although I wouldn't use that word quite yet, you get the idea.