Heading home from my first rendezvous with Mick was a giddy affair, it had been a very successful first date as first dates go! We spoke easily on a variety of subjects, we had chocolate, we discovered we had the same favorite movie (Blazing Saddles), and nobody hurled. We made a date for dinner the following night, and I was on the way home considering restaurant and wardrobe options when my phone blinged - an incoming text from my handsome Englishman. "My mind is a raging torrent, flooded with rivulets of thought cascading into a waterfall of creative alternatives!" I squealed with delight - he was quoting Hedley Lamarr from our favorite film! I don't think I've ever met another human being who can randomly pull quotes out of their ass from this movie, but Blazing Saddles was our "Rocky Horror Picture Show". We know every line by heart. "You use your tongue prettier than a $20 whore" I texted back. Laughing out loud to myself, I was giving out crazy vibes (nobody dares laugh or smile for no apparent reason here), and the rush hour commuters I shared the train with stared disapprovingly. I wasn't phased, I gave up long ago trying to fit in. I went home and perused my closet. The next day was hectic, I had several clients and barely enough time to freshen up before my dinner date with Mick. Plus, there was a perturbation; a one day strike on half the metro lines in Paris. Not very effective in terms of favorable changes to one's contract, but very effective in perturbing their hapless victims; those who commute by train everyday. Of course, the line I was taking to our rendezvous is one of the busiest, and I could quite possibly have to wait for two or three trains before managing to cram myself into a car full of sweating, frowning Parisians like a sardine without olive oil. Then suddenly I remembered a rule of dating I had heard somewhere; a woman should be a little bit late! (I guess it has something to do with anticipation.) Taking a deep breath to decontracte, I applied my favorite fragrance at the pulse points, put on my Via Spiga CFM's, and headed out the door. Just as I was locking up, I heard an all too familiar sound, the faint roar of a distant train approaching. I live about 45 seconds from the station, but by my calculations the train would be en quai in about 30, and as I mentioned, I was wearing CFM's not Nike's. "Merde!" I exclaimed, "That's my train!" Now I can walk in my stilettos, and I can dance in my stilettos, (I can even make love in my stilettos), but I simply cannot run for a train in my stilettos! But I was determined to try. Across the terrace I ran - like Blanche DuBois in "The Golden Girls" - or perhaps it was Sophia. These were shoes one wears to walk to the car, which is parked in the garage, which is right outside the kitchen door, and is dropped off at the front of the restaurant in. Down the steps, I cleared the hose that snaked around the pathway menacingly, and rounded the corner to the front of the house. The train was close now, if I didn't have these damn shoes on I might be able to make it! I hit the buzzer to release the lock on the front gate, the train was just pulling into the station. I didn't bother to make sure the gate was latched, there was a strike on and this was the only train into Paris this hour! I got my Flo Jo on and stilettos or no, I defied the old axiom; "Never run for a train, there will always be another one!" Tune in next week and find out if: a) I trip on a pothole and do a face plant in the street, b) I make the train, but get caught in the "Jaws of Death", or c) I call a taxi on Your Friday Night French Rom-Com!
No comments:
Post a Comment