So I went to the Tuileries yesterday afternoon and got picked up twice in the space of 20 minutes. Twice! It's not like I was even wearing anything special (jeans and a T-shirt, nothing to write home about, really). I guess it's that soft scent of dying summer in the air that sends these boys' hormones all a-flutter. Hey, I'm not complaining; though I did decline both the coffee offered by straight-to-the-point gentleman no.1 and the "verre" offered by chatty Rémi, my second suitor.
And I'm telling you, it's a good thing the sun is shining, I'm still on vacation, and I appear to be attracting men who have nothing better to do than to wander around the park in the middle of the afternoon, because otherwise I'd be spending my time battling furiously to repress the onslaught of a major anxiety attack. As it is, I am teetering on the border of mild hysteria with a dash of melodrama and a sprinkle of self-pity.
There are several perfectly good reasons why this is happening which I won't get into for the moment (and no, it's not menopause) but it's threatening to take the fun out of my vacation. Especially when I've promised myself I wouldn't shop (new Aubade underwear and a few T-shirts from the Gap don't count as shopping).
So I'm sticking to a strict regimen of green tea (totally zen, right?), sunbathing (vitamin D, very good for zen-ness) and my first Parisian pilates session tomorrow morning (there's a zen master in me just dying to get out and say ohm).
Everything. Is. Under. Control.