De Ce Monde Secret de l’ Amelie Americaine

I think there was an episode of Sex and the City where Carrie, with no romantic prospects decided that New York was her lover. If that metaphor is true, then I must confess, I’m feeling the “seven year itch.” There I’ve said it. I have had fantasies for awhile about stepping out on my lover, my shelter, the one who has given me more than any other.

New York was at first more than I knew what to do with. I protected myself and my feelings every-time I met him for a date. He demanded a lot of me, challenged me to point where I would often lash out at him, but unlike other cities I’ve had in my life, he gave back on equal terms. Sometimes I didn’t know how he felt about me, and I wondered if we’d last. But then he overwhelmed me with his surprises, and for once I felt like I had finally stumbled upon someone who I could build a life with.

My lover made me who I am today, and I don’t know if I’ll ever leave him. I must confess I’m not sure that we’re growing in the same direction. We’re in a rut, and I know it is my fault. He has protected me from change, waited patiently for me take another risk like I use to do when we first met. I don’t know if I am incapable of taking a real risk or if I’m incapable with him. I don’t want to blame him for something that is clearly NOT his fault. I fear that we’re both dishonest about our true feelings.

I stay because I don’t know what life would be like without him. He has made me so comfortable, that I’ve forgotten what it is to be hungry, but I’ve also become numb in the process.

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It means: Hope springs eternal or One can always hope. This phrase was on my French Word a Day calendar at the beginning of January. I had torn it off and carried it with me for the past few weeks. The square piece of paper is now a little crumpled, but the sentiment is still clear.

Hier soir, j’etais un peu triste. When I couldn’t fall asleep, I took a long, hot bubble bath and reminded myself that in some ways spring is already here. New people and possibilities have budded open as I embrace my new slogan, “aller où l’amour existe” or “go where the love is.”

A week ago, I sat next to my friend at work, giggling while she described her weekend jeux bruyants with a new lover.

And then, she surprised me with the following gossip,”You know two guys asked Brad (our boss) if he knew your status.”

“Really, here at work?” I said with a sly grin. “Who?”

“I don’t know. He wouldn’t say and he doesn’t want to get in the middle of it.  But he did ask me if I knew the answer.”

“It’s probably a bad idea to date anyone you work with.” I smiled sheepishly at my friend, whose new lover is also her co-worker on another show. She laughed.

Needless to say, until my mystery admirers make themselves known, I’ve continue to religiously apply makeup and do my hair in the morning. No more ponytails and baggy clothes. This is no time for slacking off, but it is an excellent excuse for a trip to Victoria’s Secrets.

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A couple of days ago I check out a movie from the library of the French Institute called La Bûche; a wonderfully real take on a “dysfunctional” family as they come together to celebrate the holidays. Of course in classic french tradition, the elderly father had a mistress, with whom he fathered a son. The mother had a series of affairs of her own to enact revenge, which led to her third daughter being fathered by another man. Their grown children play out their parts of the family’s moral dilemma, as one daughter becomes the cheated on, bitter, yet pampered house wife and another becomes a middle aged bohemian who spent most of her child bearing years as the mistress to a married salesman, who already had four children and a pregnant wife.

The irony that the film ended up in my DVD player this week was not lost on me. There was nothing in the title that would of clued me into the subject when I rented it, but there it was, a representation of my own inner dilemma. There were so many questions that had been left unanswered. So much politeness through quasi-truthful emails sent across the Atlantic, written on another computer, in another room, in another city, where I had never been. » Read the rest of this entry …

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