Three days after I decided to move to Paris, Mary’s boss called to ask me to interview for a job.
The job, really. A phenomenal job: it combines everything that I have been looking for over this last evilly disappointing year. (It’s been ten months, but the extra two are a bonus for pain and suffering.) And when I sent in my resume a month ago, it wasn’t because I thought anything was about to change.
I am moving to Paris at the beginning of March, and I have just been called in to talk about a wonderful job in New York. “Oh,” said Nick. “Will you meet with him?”
“Would you want me to do it?” I shrieked (in the middle of J. Crew).
“Of course not–if you wanted to, I would never tell you not to, but of course not.”
That’s better.
And the thing is that it’s okay. This thing I have been waiting and hoping and fighting for–well, I would be lying if I said it wasn’t tempting. This isn’t one of those times when the light shines down and the world becomes incredibly easy. But it’s not enough; not anymore.
It was a brutal day altogether, though, because I had to begin my goodbyes at my real job. I had to review everything I have done, and start selecting and preparing others to pick up where I will leave off, and it was…hours of that. And it was coming home to discover that a miscommunication will have me visiting Nick during the wrong week in February, putting an awkward strain on the timing of these endings that I am already torn up over, and….
And. This morning, this decision was so simple, and now it’s not, except that it is no less made for any of that.
This morning I was in denial, and now I have to put my lease termination in the mail first thing in the morning before I panic completely, because it is still what I want; it is just in my nature to unravel all at once, and the grace period is over.
There are upsides, of course.
The Upsides
- The French are really cool. They understand chocolate (it’s not about being sweet; it’s about the vicious contrast between the sweetness and bite of something strong, like coffee or liqueur.
- They also know how to put together a rhythmic and calming day, and even though Nick’s blood pressure has shot up since he moved, I’m betting that both of ours will drop dramatically when I do.
- French women all look like models. I’m not talking about anything like the most conspicuous of the were-hot-in-high-school girls: overtanned and over-made-up and highlighted and blowdried into an odd uniformity. I’m talking about something you would see on America’s Next Top Model: women who quietly and subtly play to their own individual strengths, and now I am going to learn. In fact, today, inspired, I made a stop at Sephora, and although I left looking like I was not wearing makeup, I got hit on incessantly afterward, so I think I’m getting the hang of it already. Nick has mixed feelings about this development.
- I like adventures.
- On the phone tonight, after just a few questions beginning with “Wait; are you upset about ____, or ____?” Nick expertly diagnosed cold feet and talked me down, all at 6:30am his time. Just imagine what he could do if we were in the same time zone.