Oh, the irony...

  The pace of life has me overwhelmed right now. It's a Friday night and I willfully admit I am camped out in my studio, avoiding the buckets and buckets of rain I hear tumbling down from the Parisian night sky. Tonight I am cuddled with my narratology books and my blankets and--as my sixth grade teacher would have it--enough work to choke an elephant.

    Four volumes of comic book translations for a freelance project, commissioned by a publishing house in LA.

    An entire masters thesis. A fiction theory course.

    Another freelance editorial gig for this damn boîte in the 10th that just can't seem to figure out, after eighteen months, if it wants to hire me.

    A country that alternately DOES and DOES NOT want me here.

    Another editorial gig starting on Monday for a startup accelerator that wants me to handle all of their press...from web to press relations to everything in between...deep breath.

     A non-fiction memoir to write as a personal project for fam.

     And enough Frenchmen popping out of the woodwork to have me shriveling back into my cave of solitude.

*  *  * 

      Oh, the irony. It's about all I can say about my life right now. On Tuesday I went to the Berkeley Club of France's fall reception, and even though This One had been texting me that day and emailing me, he didn't mention a word about going. Knowing him, I figured he'd be too busy. 

       Lo and behold, who shows up? This One. He bises me hello tout d'un coup, out of the blue, while I'm making conversation with other people. 

        I'd volunteered to help run the show, so I was detained checking people in. I'd set my purse next to him on a chair, but a friend of his showed up and displaced it by the time I rejoined them for the lecture. He then spends the rest of this talk, on the other side of his friend, who is the buffer between us, fidgeting and checking his phone, texting, and what seems to be stealing glances at me. 

         At one point, I turn my head to the right and catch him face on, and he pops a big grin and turns back to his phone. 

          I start chat whispering with his friend, who figures out that I'm American. 

         Cocktail hour ensues. 

         Cocktail hour ensues and friend is avidly chatting me up while This One is cornered by a bore from the Ecole Normale. Friend asks me for my number. Friend gets my number. 

          This One leaves with a dash rather suddenly, rather early, exclaiming loudly enough for me and for his friend to hear, ¨On s'appelle, Lins!¨

           *  *  *

           Ô, the irony is that I don't want your friend calling me, you fool. Oh, the irony is that when you had your talk with me weeks and weeks ago when you proclaimed you didn't have the time to give me what I wanted, you said that maybe in two months time you'd regret it and be pounding on my door. 

            Oh the irony is that I do not know that you regret it, I suspect it, but I think you have far too much pride to ever explicitly announce this. 

             Oh the irony is that the second I start to really detach from you, I have Frenchies coming at me from every angle: your friend, the friend of another friend I met last weekend while out. The list goes on. 

             The irony of it all is that I do not want them, all I really want is you. But such is life. 

             And while I wish you would just figure your shit out, I cannot and will not sit around like a stranded princess waiting for you, because real men know what they want and they go for it, and the tough reality is that you did not go for me, for whatever reason that may be. 

             Oh, the i-ron-y....