Euh ben oui.

So, here I am. Dating my Frenchie since September, and still trying to find a map to find myself in this relationship. It's work. A lot of it. And since we've been apart for over three months, and our interactions are limited to conversations, it's been a lot of hard work. I mean, I used to spend five minutes explaining the joke I made, and that "You're such an ass!" wasn't really offensive, but rather playful... He spent ten minutes trying to explain that when he said "You should see a doctor for that acne, your skin is breaking out," he really wasn't trying to be mean, but rather sympathetic. We would look at each other, hug it out (or have make up sex), and everything was okay again. 


Now, thousands of miles apart, he tells me "I have a lot of work, and we don't have anything else to say to each other." I reply to his comments with "Shut up!" And we sit there and sulk. In silence. Over the phone. Or to make it more awkward, over Skype, as I paint my nails, and he stares at the floor. I wish I could say my relationship was shit and end it, but it's pretty amazing. It's just that simple communication is out of the window. But hey, I finally learned something none of my professors taught me in college -- patience. 


And I really think it's key. Patience. (Fuck you, Jonathan. My first boyfriend told me, "the key to happiness is having no expectations,"which really did not make our relationship any better, just made him less guilty about forgetting our dates after having smoked too much pot. Oh, college.)


Ok, I'm full of shit. I'm still learning, but at least I know I should be more patient, which is more than what I could say about my other relationships. And like a Ladurée macaron au chocolat, he is totally worth the work. Which again, if you know me at all, is so much more than what I could say about my other relationships. (I stopped going to the gym as soon as I met my ex). 


What I love about dating Frenchie (aside from his own personal qualities), is that being French, he comes with his idea of a woman. And I can't say I disagree: six months into this relationship, I still wear make up, paint my nails, own pantyhose (and panties) by which my grandmother would be embarrassed.


Today, I sat across from a girl whose armpit hair was long enough to braid. This girl is the reason why I had to pay on three of my first dates. And before you stick your finger in my face bitching about women's rights, I say, stop confusing them with societal standards. She's no more of a woman than I am, she just went back a few centuries of culture. Frenchie keeps me from becoming that girl. Ok, maybe I could never be her, but I definitely am not comfortable enough to come out in a Nutella stained tshirt. (If you're wondering, there are quite a few of them in my hamper.)


Not sure how often French girls shave their pits, but they do offer a lot of competition with their effortless femininity. Challenge accepted, armpits shaved.