After almost two months of not seeing the sun and living through constantly overcast skies, things are finally starting to brighten up here in Paris, and it’s made a crazy difference in my life. I’m seriously considering relocating during the winter months to a warmer climate—this year taught me a crazy lesson in seasonal depression.

Maybe it was daylight savings time this weekend (NOTE—Oops, it took me a while to figure out that DST doesn’t happen here until next week. I was off by an hour for a whole day!), but all of a sudden I feel like things are moving really quickly, almost in such a way that I feel like I’m already at the finish line (wherever that may be) looking back. This past week went by in a flash. My parents were in town, which meant living on an intense tourist schedule, ushering them around the Louvre and through the crowded streets of Montmartre, plus getting us to London for the weekend and back. Exhausting! This visit was weird because it was really the first time I’d ever hosted my parents and been living in a world that was entirely different from theirs ...

As much as American girls may complain about the state of dating, sex, courtship, and guys, at least we can read the signals on our own home turf. (Whether we want to believe them is a different matter.)

But over here in Paris, where the word “dating” literally does not exist in the French vocabulary, understanding male/female relationships is all the more confusing. The issue here is that French men and romance are traditionally stereotyped (just like American women, or any romantic situations for that matter). The way things are “supposed to be”: If a French dude kisses you, it means he’s fallen for you, and there’s no pretense, and a week later you’re buying toothbrushes for each other and making love to accordion music on a bed of croissants. But, when things don’t magically become this clear-cut, the confusion sets in, and there’s no rhyme or reason to actions because ... well, there’s no standard dating code of conduct.

Where this leaves me at the moment is wondering if I got the brush-off, or what comes next (if there even is a “next”).

It took me three days to come up with a witty and grammatically correct text to send to Scrappy Bathroom Boy (not the best nickname I realize), the guy I’d met at the Prescription Cocktail Club last Saturday. Why is it so hard to find my personality in this language? I wondered as I made revision after revision of the message in French. Finally, on Tuesday, I trashed my drafts and went for something simple and direct: “It was nice meeting you. Sorry, I just wasn’t up for the late night thing last Saturday, but would have liked to join you and your friends. If you want, maybe we can get a drink sometime this week.” Phew! My heart raced as I sent it off. I couldn’t help holding back a smile at the thought of finally going on a date. When was the last time I had been on one? It had to be early November with American Boy. November. Jesus.

In the wrong place at the right time: A new fashion exhibit lauding the work of Dior comes just in time for Paris Fashion Week (it begins next week), but finds itself at the Musée du Président Jacques Chirac in Sarran, a good 300 miles south of the fashion capital. The show, “Dior: The Creative Passion,” looks tres cool and covers the couture house through its history, taking a look back at the iconic dresses, sketches, and perfume bottles, as well as tracking the progression of head designers (starting with Yves Saint-Laurent up to today’s John Galliano). We’d love to get lost in this exhibit and fall into a make-believe world, getting as close as possible to feeling what it would be like to live in Dior. (That way, we wouldn’t have to rob the Madison Avenue boutique for the experience.) Check out more images after the jump. [WWD]

• On Thursday night, France‘s government approved a proposal to add “psychological violence” to a law that intends to help domestic abuse victims. The proposal does not allow a husband or wife to “act or repeatedly say things that could damage the victim’s life conditions, affect his/her rights and his/her dignity or damage his/her physical or mental health.” Punishment for breaking the “psychological violence” law could be three years in prison or a fine of around $100,000. Some are skeptical that the law will be applicable, but the sponsors say it will help victims by taking into account non-physical acts of intimidation, like aggressive text messages or emails. [New York Times]
• Nineteen-year-old Hani Khan, who is of Indian and Pakistani descent, said she lost her job at the mall clothing store Hollister because her Muslim headscarf violated the “look policy.” Khan’s manager had told her, in accordance with the “look policy,” she had to wear a scarf that was white, gray or navy blue. Khan consented and worked in the stockroom without any problems for six months. Then the store manager popped in for a visit and six days later when Khan came to work, she was put on the phone with Abercrombie & Fitch‘s human resources. (A&F owns Hollister.) The HR person told Khan her headscarf violated the “look policy” and when Khan refused to remove it, she was taken off the work schedule. A&F declined to comment. [AOL News]

In France, there’s a metrosexual common denominator—all males seem to come out of the womb in bespoke suits and are born with an encyclopedic knowledge of style and culture. But the real men use this super macho anti-wrinkle pen product from L’Oréal. That’s right, dudes get wrinkles, too, and the way they combat them is through phallic-like devices encased in tough ice and supercharged with vitamin C and caffeine. The L’Oréal Men Expert Hydra Energetic Bille Glacé Yeux (they want to give you a mouthful, huh?) is a portable rolling pen that dispenses a cooling substance which aids in the reduction of fine lines and makes you look less tired. Don’t believe any dude would actually use this? Meet three L’Oréal men on the product’s microsite ...

Americans may be diet-obsessed, but we’ve got nothing on French women. When American Vogue publishes a weight loss article, you won’t hear the end of it for months. But in France, pick up any popular women’s fashion magazine, and you’ll find there’s at least one diet-focused feature without fail. Oftentimes, these publications don’t even try to attempt fake-holistic attitudes towards health. Take, for example, French Elle‘s review of the ridiculous Forking Diet, where you can only consume foods meant to be eaten with a fork.

Dear readers,

Je suis désolée. I’m sorry. I spent some time last week reading my posts from the past two months and realized that, well, I’ve been a complete Debbie Downer lately. This is the supposedly adventurous life of some girl in Paris??? I thought as I clicked through. Sure, the whole Alex fiasco was definitely a dramatic romance, but looking back at my words, I saw how I was missing everything around me. My waking up was in part prompted by a random IM from an acquaintance back in NYC. An older man with whom I’ve always had a guiltily flirtatious rapport with. When I told him I’d been a bit down lately, he almost berated me. “You have to have adventures. You are so free now. You’ll see: later, there will be no time for this type of stuff. You need to just go places and see things.” For a moment this made me depressed. As if I were barreling headfirst towards this place of older age and responsibility, and was already regretting not being more fun right now. But then I saw that he was right. Why do we spend so much of our lives living in the future? Or lingering in the past? Why does it never occur to you to just not think too much about things? (Well, because it’s really hard to do this, but it shouldn’t be.) That day, I made two swift decisions.

“I think today might be the one day of the year where it’s socially acceptable to get wasted alone,” I wondered aloud as Emily and I walked past some heart-shaped decorations in the window of one of the many anonymous-looking Chinese restaurants lining the streets of Belleville. It was Sunday, Valentine’s Day, and we’d spent the morning in yoga class and were now walking back to the metro together.

“Awww,” she said, consolingly. “Well, I think Valentine’s Day is kind of like New Year’s. Usually a letdown. But totally, you can drink.”

“Maybe I will. Maybe I’ll cook something nice too,” I said, immediately reflecting on the guilty secret that has been my life for the past few weeks: working in bed for most of the day, reluctantly dragging myself out into the cold to find a pathetic dinner of baguette and cheese or yogurt and cereal. It made me remember that I’ve been so lazy lately that I hadn’t bothered to do the dishes after most of these meals, and that my apartment was a complete disaster zone.

We walked on in silence, both ostensibly sad because of the lovers’ holiday. Me, because I’m completely alone. Emily, alone as well because her boyfriend lives in Spain. At that point, it seemed only natural that, yes, I’d cook tonight, and Emily should come over so that we could have a girls’ night, drink some champagne, and feel sorry for ourselves. I felt relief because the thing is, I’ve never had any feelings about V-Day before, but this year felt like a slap in the face because last year, I’d spent it with Alex ...

The city of Paris is allowing people to submit neighborhood-specific missed connections of 160 characters or less through its website. On February 14th, the most beautiful ones will be selected and put up on these announcement boards that are found throughout the city. How romantique! [Paris.fr]

While I was in NYC, a session with my old shrink told me that I really need to—as much as I hate, hate this expression—“put myself out there” more. “It’s not wrong to want to be in a relationship,” Dr. W reasoned. “It’s unhealthy, however, if you just sit at home all the time and do nothing about it.”

The moment the wheels of the plane touched down at JFK, I felt the comfort of the familiar as I realized that everyone around me was speaking English. I mindlessly zoomed through immigration and got in a cab. I’m sure you know the feeling of coming back home when you’ve been away for a while—it’s weird how natural it is, sort of like nothing’s different, or you never really left. And yet, at the same time, you’re thrown off by out-of-the-blue changes, like how all of a sudden there’s an Apple store in your neighborhood, and a building that was on one block isn’t there anymore, and a high-rise has gone up in the space of four months.

I have to say, being home makes me feel really torn. I’ve been so proud of myself for coping so well in a foreign city outside my comfort zone, but God, it’s nice to just not have to think about the littlest things.

• A committee in France’s Parliament will stop short of recommending a ban on Muslim women wearing burqas at all places in France. Instead, the committee will only suggest body-covering veils be banned in public facilities, like on public transport or in hospitals. Muslim students have already been banned from wearing headscarves in the classroom since 2004. [Wall Street Journal]
• According to new data from the Guttmacher Institute, teen pregnancy rose three percent from 2005 to 2006. The increase was mostly concentrated among 18- and 19-year-olds. Overall, abortions among teenagers rose one percent as well. [Time]
• Speaking of teen pregnancy, even though the entire story is completely untrue, Lifetime’s made-for-TV-movie “The Pregnancy Pact,” about a group of teenaged girls who decide to get knocked up together, was the highest-rated among women ages 18 to 34 since 1994. I actually couldn’t watch more than 30 minutes of it before I had to stop! [Variety]

If you could have your ideal social life, what would that be? Parties every night of the week? Home-oriented with the option to go out? Hanging out at your best friends’ houses?

Creating the tone of your life outside work hours depends on the kind of person you are, but it’s also largely reliant on the city you live in.

It’s taken me a while to realize that cultivating a “normal social life” in Paris can’t rely on my past experiences. Even though I may have grown tired of my going-out habits in New York, I felt engaged in a certain standard culture. In Paris, however, I’ve come to see that I’ve been fighting an uphill battle to tap into what I’ve come to think of as that “standard social culture,” because, duh, the lives of young people here are vastly different.

Sometimes the best thing for a broken heart is to take that heart to the bar and to get it really, really drunk.

I spent most of the past week in bed. It’s not as bad as it sounds—it wasn’t like I was crying every night (or at all), but I was just in a place where I couldn’t get out of my thoughts about me and Alex. I knew it would have been healthier to try and do some wholesome socializing, but I just put my head down, devoted myself to work, and thought about what it means to let someone out of your life. I finally decided to take me and my deep thoughts out when, on Wednesday, Dani called to invite me to get cous cous in the 10th. It sounded mellow and uneventful, so I threw on my boots and a sweatshirt without a second thought.

Little did I know that “getting cous cous” meant going to a lively bar with a group of people and getting wasted ...

I’m devastated. And so paralyzed by losing Alex that I can hardly move. I don’t know how I’m supposed to get through my day, and feel as if I’ve almost forgotten how to walk, talk, sleep, eat, or think. Things will get better, I know. But for the moment, I’m really in the thick of it, and kicking myself for knowing I’d likely find myself here in the first place.

The week was quiet after Alex left Paris last Sunday. Later that same evening, I heard from him on IM. He told me he had gotten home safe and had a great time. I tried to keep the conversation going, but he was fairly unresponsive, and remained that way in the following days. I figured he was taking time to digest, and that the best thing to do was to give him some space. But around Thursday, my heart couldn’t take the silence for much longer, and after a public breakdown I had to email him. “We obviously have a significant history,” I wrote. “And the wonderful time we had together last week left me wondering if we’re getting back into it, or if I should expect not to see you again.”

It all happened so quickly. And was over just as fast.

At 9 a.m. on Wednesday morning, I found myself unexpectedly waiting at the Gare du Nord, my heart beating out of my chest and my head spinning like crazy. It was only 12 hours ago that my ex-love, Alex, had come back into my life, and it took only a fistful of Euros and a three-hour train ride to close the distance—both metaphorical and physical—between us.

Strangely, it had been almost a year since Alex and I saw each other last. We’d struck up a blog romance last year and had such a profound connection that we had crossed the Atlantic a few times to see each other.

Christmas Day I woke up in an unfamiliar bed with a pounding headache. The hell? Where the eff am I? Then it all came rushing back: glass after glass of champagne at a boat cabaret on the Canal de la Villette singing along to Judy Garland songs. Most random Christmas Eve ever.

I snorted out loud—well, this would have to be the first time I woke up in a stranger’s bed and didn’t do something I regretted.

I closed my eyes again, trying to re-piece the evening. Where did it all start? Oh right, new friend Emily had invited me to this concert, and we’d had dinner at her apartment beforehand where we commenced with a bottle of champagne and a delicious squash/spinach/pasta dish she’d made. Then off to the boat where we were treated to free booze because her friends were the ones who put on the act.

At the end, it had been like an awkward but good third date ...

The French are crazy about Christmas. It was sometime after Halloween that I gradually began to see a sprig of holly here and there. My cousin, an ex-pat married to a Frenchman, hypothesizes that the Christmas Craze occurs because they have no Thanksgiving, and, therefore, nothing else in between to look forward to.

Now that it’s just a few days away, the entire city feels like it’s celebrating. The winding streets of the Latin Quarter are lit up with twinkly lights, the windows of the department stores have been transformed into lavish, glittery displays, and on just about every corner you’ll get a whiff of a hearty, nutty smell—street vendors roasting chestnuts. And the food. Oh my God. The food. I spent about a half-hour browsing the new Christmas section in my grocery store, fingering packages of foie gras, caviar, and pâté. Marzipan shaped like cherries. Pale green pistachio macaroons. Sugary marrons glacés.

Being a Jew, I’ve never really celebrated Christmas, but the idea is highly appealing to me. It feels warm and festive, and more about love and the feeling of being home. It was because of this that I was initially terrified of Christmas’ arrival—a painful reminder that I’m not exactly in my dream life yet. To follow Mindy Kaling’s relatable “Scripting a Fantasy of a Family” essay that ran in the Sunday Times, my ideal holiday season would look something like this ...

Like they say, two steps forward, one step back.

This week has been a lesson in relationship building. What I’ve learned: you do need to get out of your comfort zone, but sometimes you have to cut your losses and stay put.

It seemed like the fates had answered my prayers for some more social intrigue when last week an email landed in my inbox. An admirer! A French one! With XY chromosomes!