De Ce Monde Secret de l’ Amelie Americaine

Here’s the new Leann Rime’s single

A line from chorus “I am allowed to let go of what I can not change.”

Another line…” I am allowed to love the one that I can not change.”

I, American Amelie, am allowing myself to move on with my life.  I will forgive myself for being true to myself.  For protecting myself, for saying no. I will acknowledge that despite being fundamentally judged for these actions, that I am still lovable.  I will have faith, that true love will acknowledge these rights without hesitation…and that is one of the basics.

And without the basics, can true love thrive?  American Amelie is making room for a new life.  She is making choices that put her out of her comfort zone. She is taking a risk. She knows that she might fail, but if she doesn’t try, she might always be comfortable, but she won’t know love.

American Amelie wants love.  She wants a life.

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“I think we are in different places in our life. ” Mr. Republican Hair Part concluded about the current state of his love life with a Taiwanese friend. I’ve known her for seven years and everytime we were suppose to come together, it just never worked out.” Still I could tell that he was pining for it to.

Later came the “I don’t think that there is the perfect person for anyone, just the right time, the right person and the right situation….I think that you and I are in exact same place.” As I told him about my move to the suburbs…my days as Bridget Jones in Brooklyn are numbered like the impending due date on my credit card statement.

It is time for me to decide what was important and continue to embrace responsibility, not because I have to, but because it has somehow, become who I am, and who I am comfortable being. Still uneasiness pressed down on my chess about his half hearted attempts to reach across the phone line. Could true love sound this pragmatic?

“I know that if I got involved with someone else, that she would most likely not be comfortable with this “other friend.” He told me of Taiwan Girl’s reluctance to move to the states and be with him, because she was the youngest child and culturally she was expected to take care of her parents.

He had left a stable job for her, when his superiors inferred that this relationship and his job were not compatible. He dropped it without question, for someone he cared for. I only admired him more. Aching when I realized that his romantic notions were not meant for me. “My posted resume got spammed with job offers…three of them were in New York.”

“Really?” I replied, monitoring my tone. “Is this speculative or definite?”

“More speculative at this point. Actually I think that I am going to take an offer I received here in Maryland. ”

“Congratulations.” We ended our conversation with open invitations to visit each other…yet neither one of us offered definitive dates.

I laid in bed that night sorting through our conversation. Words, subtext, meaning and emotion colliding with the language barrier that inherently exists between men and women. I woke up again at 2 a.m. and groaned unable to feel any peace about it.

I shot off a judgmental, quickly written email,”Does she appreciate what you have sacrificed for her?” I asked, fully regretting my critical, abet slightly motherly tone. “Duty is one thing…but love is love.?” He never answered me. Never defended her. Yet I realized his fight for her heart was not over. My heart ached just a little at the thought that his open heart might be used against him.

I couldn’t help myself. I have known him peripherally for fourteen years. The boy who had given me the charming silver necklace when I was nineteen, was now the imperfect man, in transition, in pain, and in love with someone else, who seemed reluctant to return his affections. Still despite his imperfections. I couldn’t help but care. The perfect heart was imperfectly in love with someone else. Love IS NOT an intellectual concept, despite his best attempts to hide it.

I past a Harley Dealership today while exploring my new neighborhood. I thought of Mr. Motorcycle. A week ago I was admiring photos of his newly remodeled stainless steel kitchen. “The problem is.” he stated, ” I have this great kitchen, and no one to cook for me.” He smiled, looked down, and then looked up directly at me with his big brown puppy dog eyes. No he still has not asked me out on an official date, but I knew if I asked him to help me build my new Ikea furniture in exchange for a home cooked meal, he would accept it in a heartbeat.

Mr. Motorcycle would need some training. He would not necessarily understand my need to learn French, visit the Met, or go to the occasional opera. I would not dare force him to go shopping at the Westchester, but I could still expect him to put his best face on if we traveled to Europe. But this is who I am, and if he genuinely likes me, he knows it.

My wanderlust is expressed by aimlessly walking through Central Park, to end up at the perfect sushi place on the Upper East Side. His is expressed via a tank of gas and $20 to pay for the tolls we would pass on the parkway. What we have in common is that slightly nomadic, slightly wild spirit. We are still so different, but the questions remains, are those differences complementary, or a liability waiting in the wings to upset. What is true love? I don’t have the faintest idea anymore.

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“That says a lot about his character.” said Mr. Republican Hair Part, as I recounted the story of Mr. Motorcycle’s continued flirtation, and but inability to take the risk to ask me out on a proper date.

“I agree. The men at work are always in through the side door and out the back” I said, believing in our meeting of the minds, yet perilously aware of the dangerous emotional waters I was walking into.

I have a small confession. There is a growing part of my idealizing and adoring feminine psyche that takes a lot of comfort in the thought of being with someone like him. Someone who is fiercely intelligent and cultured, opens doors for the woman in his life, and is neither cynical nor suspicious about a woman’s need to be looked at, slightly doted on, and understood for her moods.

I have another confession. I was also always the sort of leftist, regrettably pierced and tattooed, rebelliously artistic girl who had the secret crush on a boy in the conservative Izod t-shirt and khaki pants, despite his diametrically opposing political views. I never back down from a good discussion. Honest disagreement, is like foreplay.

As I have moved closer to the center of my beliefs a better me has emerged. Even my tattoo seems out of place and is slated to be removed by my dermatologist next month. I realize there is a new and happier me emerging as well. I am not the girl I was in my twenties, and the men are starting to finally notice.

My final and rather embarrassing confession. I thought Tucker Carlson and his little bow tie were kind of hot, up until his unfortunate appearance on Dancing with the Stars.

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There are dirty corners of dust, pet hair, and shredded paper every where.  It is too cluttered to sweep and haphazardly strewn possessions have no home or resting place.  Boxes are stacked against a bare living room wall. My voice is beginning to echo, there are fewer curtains, pillows and soft paper back books to absorb the sound.   Every object in my junior one bedroom seems to clash with the object next to it, their energy screaming they must move outward, like my life, they need room to expand.

Insomnia took hold last night. I woke up at 2 a.m. and didn’t fall back asleep. I took my dog for a walk. Picked up an ice latte at Dunken Donuts and paced uphill two avenues to forget my nerves.  I wanted to say that the reason I couldn’t sleep was due to a somewhat confusing love life.   The truth is,  calm set in when I thought about going back to pack more boxes.  I stepped over a chunk of jagged sidewalk. Someone had written, “Bye, Brooklyn” in light pink chalk.

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“Maybe it is  a television thing.” I wrote to a friend in a recent letter. “The men are very friendly and flirtatious, but rarely does it mean anything. They try to come in through the side door and out the back.”

As if G_d himself was listening and was ready to show me once again, what an idiot I was, a guy I work with, who we shall call Mr. Motorcycle, came over to my desk last weekend, and started to be very attentive.

Now Mr. Motorcycle had made passes in the past, but I had brushed them off with a friendly, non-judgmental but slightly detached “thank you.” that has become a staple response I use to relate to men on the job.  No harm, no foul.

Suddenly last week, Mr. Motorcycle kicked it up a notch.   Maybe it was the fact that I  couldn’t  speak because I  had a severe sore throat,  but he became very caring and attentive, making me hot tea, hanging out at my desk, to the point where other women on set were beginning to notice.

Rose, a very lovable, no nonsense stage manager met me in the ladies room, after I had blushed one too many times on set. “He really likes you.” She stated flatly.

“Do you think?” I responded, “Men in our field are generally very…”

“Friendly.” She completed my sentence. “No, he really likes you.”

“Do you think he is a player?”

“No…I’ve known him for awhile and he’s very stable and up front. I’ve never seen him flirt with other women on the job. You guys would be cute together”

“Uh”…I was speechless.  A fundamentally decent guy was flirting with me. Hurrah!

After the show there is mandatory half hour waiting period before we are released for the night.   After packing up my belongings, I found Rose in the fishbowl and sat with my back turned away from the door.

Rose smiled, “He just stopped, looked in the window, and looked right at you.”

“Really!” I didn’t turn around.

It was time to go home. I walked to my car, and headed back to Brooklyn.   When I got home, the following message was on my voice-mail.

“Hey it’s Rose. Just wanted to let you know that after you left he came looking for you. I told him that you left already, and he went running after you.”

Feeling like queen princess of the universe, I started the following work week, feeling very confident and happy. I sat upon my throne, ready for him to walk over and ask me out.

He never did.  Instead he became detached, casual and cool.

I have to say it was a bit of a confidence buster.  There is something to be said for any guy who has a strong enough sense of self that he willing to walk through the front door and ask a girl out, even if he fears that he will be rejected.  As a woman I appreciate that quality far more.

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This morning I sheepishly walked the “walk of shame” toward my vehicle, knowing full well what was waiting for me when I arrived. Sure enough, not only did I have the bright orange envelope sticking out from underneath my windshield wiper, but there was also a nearly permanent, florescent yellow sticker plastered across my window, proclaiming that I had failed to move my car for the street-sweepers. I had been tagged, ticketed, and publicly rebuked for forgetting to move my car.

Like the judge who forces inmates in prison to wear pink jumpsuits, the stickers screams “look at me, I’m an irresponsible idiot.” to everyone who passes by. This dreaded sticker is nearly impossible to get off without a serious amount of elbow grease. It is the staple tool of intimidation used by over zealous traffic cops, who prefer to spend their time strolling shaded, residential neighborhoods, as opposed to dealing with the traffic jam in front of the Brooklyn Bridge. Just another reason to look forward to the day when my car will be safely parked in my suburban garage, away from prying judgmental eyes everywhere.

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I lit a pink candle last week, and recited the following prayer, “I do not want a perfect man. I want the man who is perfect for me.”

As someone who regularly accepts that she will not get what she wants it is hard  to accept an answered prayers.    Trust is very complicated.

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