Last night, I finished editing a piece I wrote about a month ago and polished it for submission to The New York Time's Modern Love column in the style's section. Remuneration for the column is modest--about 500 US dollars--but the payoff to land publication in such a prestigious column is huge. Agents regularly track down contributors to offer them contracts and publishing houses book deals. No less than nine book deals have sprung from the column.
The piece I wrote, I wrote for me, and it is a simple piece. Regardless of whatever may come of it (editors claim to respond within 4-6 weeks, so perhaps I'll know in a while the fate of my lone ship out on the brooding editorial sea) I am proud and happy just to have submitted it.
Then I got to thinking about what the editors mean by modern love. For me it is nearly an oxymoron. Love, real love, is as old time. What they mean by modern is simply our changing attitudes and comportment about how we go about finding that love. The actions we find acceptable, reasonable, normal in its pursuit, and those we do not.
I admit that in this case I do not find it NORMAL that my Blackberry is ringing off the hook and yesterday I was juggling FWB, Monsieur Lawyer, Monsieur Engineer, and a new gentleman, who for blog purposes I'll call Monsieur Bob.
When it rains, it mother freaking tempestuously pours. Modern Love is also a victim to global warning, it seems.
* * *
A hundred years ago, if a man wanted to court a woman, he'd stop by the house to call on her. He'd come at set hours, sit in the parlor, and under the gaze of "adult" supervision, they'd chat. If she wasn't at home when he called, he'd leave his calling card.
Fifty years ago, if a man wanted to date a woman, he'd get her home phone number and call her telephone at home and they'd go to the movies or on a walk.
Today, apparently, it is sufficient enough to put yourself on a dating website for the first time in your life, watch your "taux de popularite" rise rapidly, and not know what the hell to do with yourself when a select few you pick then all come barreling after you at once.
I have said before I am not used to this.
What I am really not used to is having them all assault my Blackberry on the same day and sometimes, within minutes of one another. How, HONESTLY, did I go from being the dateless girl in high school to THIS? I think another Modern Love column contributor might have the answer to that question.
But I digress.
I have previously mentioned that it's a test of mine to drop contact with a guy who I'm interested in after the first date. It's, I'll repeat, very telling how he handles himself after and it lets me know just how much he's interested. If he takes pains to get back to me, then I know he's for real. If he doesn't seem to care, then he really doesn't. End of story and no heartbreak on my end.
* * *
French Wine Baron started his internship Wednesday and we've texted since. I wasn't sure whether he could--or could not--come to Paris again this weekend, but he called last night to let me know his grandparents who have not seen him in a year since he left for his world trip Master, will be in town and so he can't come up. He also said the weekend I'm free to come down at the end of the month won't work because he'll be hosting the new promotion of his Master's program while they do their unit on southern France.
"When will you be free in November?" he asked as I proceeded to give him my availability through January. I have my work schedule six months in advance.
I tried to avoid the sinking feeling that maybe I won't see him again for a long time. I've lost him once and I don't know if I want to "lose" him again. But it's not looking any easier, and I'm trying my best and hardest not to play the "signs" game with him. I'll direct you to this Modern Love column for clarification.
I don't want to wait around forever. I've played the waiting game before. I know FWB does not expect me to wait for him, but waiting and WANTING to wait are two completely different things. I don't know anymore. I am uncertain. But I miss him.
* * *
Monsieur Engineer, whom I was beginning to think had dropped off the planet, called me last night and wanted to see me. I unfortunately couldn't because I had to babysit. He was disappointed because I told him I might be free, but alas, my job demands that I be at the disposition of my employer, which makes it hard to schedule myself. I apologized and we rescheduled for Tuesday.
* * *
Monsieur Lawyer text flirted with me all evening and wanted to know what I'm doing for Nuit Blanche. In French, a "nuit blanche" is an "all nighter", but in the Parisian case, an all night urban artistic party. I've missed in in previous years due to work, but this year I'll be free. I've been admittedly hard to get a hold of all week because I started class again, but I also am reaching my upper limits of being able to handle multiple people.
" Did the FARC come and snatch you?" He joked.
" The FARC?"
" The Forces Armees Revolutionnaires de Colombie." ( The Armed Revolutionary Forces of Columbia).
" Haha, no."
" Good," he responded. "Otherwise I'd come have to lawyer you out of prison! We're useful, we jurists, you see ;) "
I am not used to persistence on the part of these gentlemen.
* * *
Monsieur Bob is someone I've been interested in, and he's tried all week to get a hold of me. We chatted last night on the phone for about 30 minutes and I'm excited to meet him on Sunday. We're going to get lunch and then just enjoy the gardens and parks of Paris. But I think he's someone I'll click with, at the very least on a platonic level.
We'll see.
* * *
Then there is E, who is dealing with his own karmic fallout, just as I predicted he would. I genuinely empathize and am sorry for what he is going through. Compassion is one of the many languages I speak. At the same time, I feel--after being told much of the story, and not just surface details--that he has brought it upon himself.
We all have choices. We can all cut ties. We chose how we react to the cards we are dealt.
He chose. For years and years and years he chose.
* * *
Does embracing Modern Love mean I become a Butterfly when I am really an Arrow? I feel like I'm masquerading here, because all I want is one. Does Modern Love mean all those with a romantic streak, a hard core romantic streak, such as me, have to suffer under the weight of the cynics who think that love is a farce?
I do not know. I'm crouching under the table waiting for the Cosmic HAHA to reappear. I am waiting for my bubble to be burst. I am wondering when I will get the Carrie Bradshaw style Post-it Note breakup.
This is, after all, Modern Love.
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