Je suis americaine

So, we’ve been together for a few months now and things are going really well. However, there is a certain disconnect between how he’s feeling and what I’m thinking. He says, “I really love you. I just feel so comfortable around you,” as I’m dying of gas pains, starting to feel razor-burn in places I’d rather not, and still wearing make up so I don’t look like a hag while we’re lying in bed. Real comfortable. Usually by this time in relationships I’m past the point of trying to maintain sex appeal all the time, but for some reason I just can’t relax. Which makes me wonder- what is love anyway? How can I say that I’m in love with someone, yet be afraid they might discover that I’m actually human (and by human, maybe I mean American)? How do French women do it? Do they just get used to feeling uncomfortable all the time? Does it really help to keep the romance alive?

Another thing that makes me feel uncomfortable: who pays?

One of the luxuries of dating American guys is that if you find a good one (meaning one who’s employed and not a tight-wad), he always pays for dinner and he always drives you there. However, after a recent conversation with my Frog, I have come to understand that French men see things differently. The conversation began with him telling me about how his ex-girlfriend was very demanding and ungrateful, expected gifts and trips all the time and how nothing he did was ever good enough for her. I sympathized, but let him know that I have certain expectations too. The ensuing exchange of words progressed slowly and cautiously. Apparently, French men see the American way as being out-dated, too traditional. They seem to think that it’s OK for the girlfriend to pick up the tab and drive the guy around. This is when I realized that those times that he let me contribute to the bill and drive us to the next place were going to become common occurrences unless I put my foot down. Fucking feminists ruined everything, or rather, men just think that they can pick and choose when women should be entitled to more “equality” with men. Anyway, the conversation ended relatively smoothly, with both of us agreeing to make some compromises: for now (until I graduate college and find a job in the next four months), I’ll just pay for the tip (maybe because, being French, he still doesn’t quite understand how that works) and he’ll offer to drive more. I smiled, “At least the sex is good,” to which he responded, “At least the sex is free.”