Folly

It’s just been one of those weekends.

I stayed out until 3:30, drinking with Michael, Thursday night. Fun in the moment, not such a great idea when it comes to getting anything done the next day.

I spent 40 euros (40!) to fax the U.S. (Tax time—yay.)

I had to walk out of Ghost Writer about 10 minutes before it ended because I was late to meet Jo; which was annoying, but also okay because the movie was dumb, and the main reason I went to see Ghost Writer instead of An Education is because it was playing in Salle I, the big, beautiful room, at La Pagode, which I definitely want to see. But then it turned out, a bigger movie had bumped it off its top billing pedestal and it was actually in Salle II, where I had already seen A Single Man.

It's been cold, grey and rainy, and the 10-day forecast calls for more of the same.

I spent 85 euros (85!) on a facial that was basically just an essential oil massage for the face and scalp, leaving me with stingy, greasy hair and the instant urge to shower.

I went to Le Bon Marché to allow myself to be willingly suckered into some sale prices (30% off this 65 euros pair of underwear? I’ll get two!) but gave up after two rounds in the dressing room, realizing I have indeed put on five pounds and not even a super cute pair of Isabel Marant harem pants are going to look good.

And now I’m sick.