Chase (v): To follow rapidly in order to catch (this could pertain to my career), to go and follow in pursuit (I think I’ll assign this to love)

I wish I had a PhD in life, unfortunately I don’t. It’s a hard thing to do and being an independent woman in Boston doesn’t make it any easier; I’m a triple A, work till I drop, laugh a lot because I can, walk fast, talk fast kinda girl. I do it all and I do it in 5 inch heels.

You would think navigating a career and a new relationship while breaking the age barrier of 30 would be as easy as getting home in a timely manner during a sox-yankees series (this ladies and gents is sarcasm at its finest). However it is not and I am stumbling through this cray cray life one day at a time with a iPhone in one hand and a glass of wine in the other.

These are my daily musings; my everyday observations. I am here to rave, rant , tell my stories and perhaps laugh at those times when wine and over priced shoes, tears just aren’t enough.

So what happens after you caught Prince Charming? You could say I’m still Chasing Boston.

Friday, November 5, 2010

Episode 9: “Going Rouge”

“That’s how the French do it my dear” the words barely made it in my ears and over the sound of my own lungs trying to catch my breath. I wasn’t sure what had happened or where I was, but I did know 2 things: 1. I was clearly in my room as I turned over and the sound of my air mattress was deafening and 2. That was the best night I had ever had…….ever.

A very wise, very fabulous gay man once told me that every woman should have an affair with a French man. I find most French men un-appealing. Generally they smell (of smoke and cabernet) and their arrogant nature turns me off quicker than a pair of mom jeans. The only thing going for them is the language. I have always loved a French accent and being able to understand it, well it does “that thing” to me……

“Vous avez de cils beaux” he whispered in my ear as we were dancing. I had one second to look up before he spinned me into a dip. I have always loved to spin, I thought to myself, and I always love a man who compliments my eyelashes. I felt myself blushing, swooning even but I couldn’t tell if it was the champagne or the accent.

The sun cast a sheer light over my bed as he was quietly packing his bag; I was wrapped up in his shirt which smelled of tobacco, V by Valentino and the rose we seemed to barrel though in my living room the evening before. His smile was warm and inviting and our conversation was candid. We spoke as if our acquaintance was lifelong and we were merely playing a game of catch up.

“I like the shirt on you” he said to me with a smile on his face, not in a “that shirt should be on the floor” way but in an utterly endearing way. I began to come to grips that I would have to say good bye to the crisp white button up. As I grabbed a cami and began the switch he looked up and said “Keep it” as if knowing that I could appreciate the fabric on a much deeper level than he ever could.

Our goodbye was cordial and the embrace seemed to linger long after his departure, I sat on my stoop and we watched our respective faces until we both faded in each other’s background.

I will probably never see him again, but I can offer up this one bit of advice; every woman should have an affair with a French man.

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