I have a confession to make.
The second time I went to Paris, the time when I booked it and then left in less than 48 hours, I was running away.
Yeah. What felt like, or looked like, whee how whimsical I am! How free and how fun and how lucky! was actually me just lost to myself and behaving like a total coward.
I’d been seeing this guy on and off for about 8 months who was also on and off with his longterm girlfriend in another state. To him, I guess I was just some company when they were off. To me, he was dreamy and I was just totally smitten. One time after we’d spent a few days together I told him, “I see you. All of you. I want to love you in all your peaks and valleys,” (wow, Kimberly, reel it in), and in response he stopped responding to me for a while.
The friends who introduced us were throwing a party and this sometimes-girlfriend was coming down and I would be expected to be there.
I didn’t just say “aw, bummer, can’t make it.” I didn’t just make other plans for myself in town or on a lil trip. I booked a flight to Paris, France and packed a bag and went.