I have been reborn. I am now 30 years old.
One of the fun things about moving to a foreign country is that nobody knows a thing about you: whether you're married or single, gay or straight, an ebullient drunk or as dull as dishwater. There have been so many times when a well-meaning colleague or a friend of a friend has told me that I can ride the Velibs for practically free! Or that I must try Pierre Hermé! Rather than try explaining in my broken French that I have already developed a love-hate relationship with the Velibs and that Pierre has been my man for over a year now, I just politely nod and say "oui, oui." This has become my mode of conversing: just agree with everything the other person is saying.
But as if everyone had placed bets on the age of the silly American girl, I've been getting asked a lot lately: "Quel age as-tu?"
And my vanity kicks in. When I tell people that I'm 36, and they respond that they thought I was 30, it gives me a secret thrill. (It's the sunscreen, I'm telling you.)
But I figure I can change my age to 30 because that's really where I am in my life. I'm still single, searching for a partner in crime, taking a break from reality to live this dreamy interlude in Paris, and still trying to make it big. I still need my 30s to figure some shit out. I always thought that I'd be married with a kid and a beach house by the time I was 36. My mom had already bore two kids and a divorce when she was 36. All I'm doing is eating, writing and dreaming, and washing it all down with French wine.
So, yeah, I'm definitely 30. And don't forget it.
Good plan! I think I'll be 30 too . . .
ReplyDelete