“So ... I’ve kind of been hanging out with American Boy,” I confessed hesitantly on the phone to my friend, S. I held my breath, a bit worried about what she would say. S and I went to high school together (she is, in fact, my only remaining friend from high school), and she now lives in Paris. It was through S that I met American Boy in the first place—they’ve been friends for a while, and I met him at a group outing in a bar back in September. I wasn’t sure how S would feel about me tumbling into bed with one of her good friends. Not that she would be disappointed, necessarily, but that she’d maybe feel awkward about the whole scenario. I should have guessed that it was just me who felt awkward about the whole scenario.

Oh my God ... the holidays are approaching. That dreaded time of year when those who are single are reminded over and over again that they are, you know, single. I’ve already decided I’m not going home for Thanksgiving, nor will I make a visit for Christmas, which means I’ve had holiday planning on my brain. Stay in Paris and hope friends are around? Or take a little trip by myself, maybe to Venice or Brussels?

Le sigh. The way things stand now, I’ll probably spend New Year’s alone, without a kiss. Ah! Why do I think this way? That conclusion comes from my neurotic, rational side which tracks my future from today to December 25th—no serious boyfriend prospects right now, plus 47 days or so isn’t enough time to fall in love AND get invited to his house AND get kissed on NYE. It’s just how it is, folks.

I haven’t been much of a believer in gut instincts until now. I’m one of those neurotic, analytical, thinks-too-much girls who tends to question her reasoning and feelings. But in the past few months, I’ve let go and gone solely on the gut. It’s what made me leave my job in New York and what brought me to Paris (so, thanks, Gut). And last Tuesday night, as I was rushing to my date with TDH (the tall, dark, and handsome Frenchman whom I met through friends), my gut was telling me, “This is not a good idea. This isn’t going to go well.”

I barely felt anything about breaking up with Mr. Cupid until a few days ago. Being back to my old life was great. No more obligations in the evening. Nights slept in my own (much prettier) bed. No more stressing about whatever next “surprise” Cupid would do, that would scare me into thinking his next one would be proposing marriage.

Yet, while I am totally glad we’re over, I did feel a momentary pang of sadness a few days ago, not so much about him, but about the disappointment in not having something be what you want it to be. Why couldn’t he just be a bit more driven and mature? All the things I want in a Frenchman I think I now see in all the couples who get in my way by making out in the middle of the sidewalk while accordions play and kids in berets skip around with ice cream cones.

I’ve completely abandoned online dating. If anyone asked me two months ago about what the difference between online dating in NYC and in France is, I would have said, “Well, in New York, a lot of people do it. And the stigma has really loosened up. France is where NYC was five years ago, so I’m positive that things will turn around with the handful of dating sites here.” Now if you asked me this question, I’d say, “If a guy in Paris is doing online dating, something is wrong with him.” Sorry. But the selection is weak.

My only other relationship with a French guy was a short-lived fling towards the end of my junior year abroad in Paris. Knowing I was leaving soon, we started off light and casual, but a month into things he broke it off. We met up late (as usual) for a drink when he told me, “I’m not in love with you; therefore, I can’t make love to you anymore.” It seemed like the most absurd excuse—since when did hooking up with a girl who was leaving the country in two months necessitate love? Offended, I downed the rest of my gin and tonic, stood up and said, “I’m going.” It was perhaps my most “Sex and the City” moment. God, I was angry.

Up until now, I’d always looked at that experience as the most ridiculous way to break up with someone. Now, in a completely ironic twist, I decided to use the same strategy to break up with Mr. Cupid.

A few days ago, I became convinced that Mr. C had gone on a date with another woman and lied to cover it up. The evidence:

1. The morning of the incident, he had logged in to OK Cupid. It had previously been almost two weeks since he had.
2. He kept changing our plans, sort of suspiciously. At first, we were to get a drink post-work, around 7:30. Then, he emailed to say that he was suddenly going to have dinner at his friend’s house, which is pretty much in the suburbs. He’d call me between 7 and 8 to set up something for later, around 9:30. Hmm ... seemed unlikely to me that he’d make a 9:30 p.m. date back in the center of Paris.
3. He didn’t call until 11 p.m. And he always, always calls when he says he will. And, he left his message in English. He always leaves voicemails in French. This one felt off and his excuses seemed rushed and disconnected.
4. The next morning, he sent me an email apologizing, explaining what happened. He got very caught up in a game of Scrabble and had lost track of the time. His description of the Scrabble game just seemed a bit too detailed and contrived.

I can’t believe I have somehow gotten a guy to cook me dinner in my own home, I thought, smiling at Mr. C as he dodged about awkwardly in my petite cuisine looking for knives, having insisted on coming to chez moi to let me relax while he made a meal.

When we sat down to eat, I started to giggle. This had to be not only the most clichéd moment I’ve experienced in Paris, but also the most clichéd moment you’d find in most movies. There I was, sitting down to my table with a view of the Seine, having a handsome French man politely correct my français as he served me a meal, accompanied by an expensive bottle of St. Emillion, and Frank Sinatra crooning in the background.

“What’s so funny?” Mr. C asked, topping off my glass.

Third date with Mr. Cupid. We were sitting in a bar in Belleville, where I had dragged him to my friend’s spoken word song night. (Yeah. I know. Long story.) But it was there, scrunched in between boho expatriates and enduring the sounds of bad slam poetry, that we kissed. A quick peck initiated by him that turned into a full-out make-out session when we left and had a drink at an outdoor cafe. Coming up for air, I looked at our nearly-drained glasses and back into his eyes.

“So ... did you want to get something to eat (we both hadn’t eaten yet), or get another drink?”

Yesterday, I met a man in the street and let him touch me. I let him take his hands to my body and caress and rub me all over.

Not like that, you perverts.

“I can’t believe it ... you’re in Paris for two weeks and you already have a boyfriend,” my sister said on the phone to me last night. She was exaggerating, for sure.

“Oh Jesus, hardly. We haven’t even kissed.”

It’s true, Mr. Cupid and I had our second date this week, and there was no kiss on the lips, despite the many obvious ins I gave him. And while this lack of progress would normally drive me insane in the U.S., it’s just how things are here, I guess.

While I had so many thoughts about French dating customs, and how I should act, I could hardly parse out my ideas before my date with Mr. Cupid once I realized that the real dilemma was what to wear. I tore apart my closet, feeling every outfit was too cliché. Jeans made me look too American; all black was like I was trying too hard to be French. A dress said I was trying to look older, but a pink top screamed young and girly (it must be said the Mr. Cupid is in his early 30s, which he clearly sees as a big age difference; I don’t). I settled on a stretchy but not too-tight plain navy dress with 3/4 sleeves, oxford heels, a black blazer, and a few gold necklaces.

I have one dating rule: if you don’t kiss by the second date, you’re just friends.

Problem is, this will not be applicable in Paris because the French have no dating rules. And not “no rules” in that oh come on, everyone knows you can’t call him way. We’re talking “no rules” in that no one in Paris dates; therefore, no one knows how to date. It’s true—there is no word for “dating” in French. They don’t even employ the English word with an accent like they do for “business” or “cool.”

I’m feeling a bit disappointed at the moment. OKCupid guy just canceled. Normally, I’d shrug this kind of thing off; it happened all the time to me in New York. But a few days ago I realized how great it would be to have a French boyfriend. (I actually have this reverse fantasy of being in a relationship with one and getting into fights, him yelling in French and me in English. Followed by post-argument sex, bien sûr.) That night I had met up with a girlfriend from college who has been living here with a Parisian boy for the past few years. Her French is now impeccable. Becoming fluent is one of my top goals for the year, and hearing her talk made me face the unfortunate reality that my French is good, but, um, not that good.

My first week in Paris is coming to a close, and, generally, I’m feeling super positive about things. My apartment could not be more perfect. It’s incredible teeny, but has two windows overlooking the Seine (eeee!), and at night the tourist boats pass by, illuminating the entire room for a few seconds with their lights. (See some pics here!) I spent the first two days alone, running all over town to take care of paperwork and get things for the house. I had been feeling pretty lonely up until last night when I went out with a mutual friend, whom I’d never met before, to have Vietnamese food and see some French pop bands at a grungy-yet-hip underground club in Belleville. There were many, many cute boys there who definitely have improved style since the last time I was here four years ago. Now, instead of wide-leg jeans and ribbed turtlenecks, they’re sporting leather jackets, thick-rimmed glasses, and the type of sweaters you know you’d steal if you were dating. It goes without saying that I will be frequenting this place a lot.

I can’t believe I leave for Paris tomorrow. I haven’t slept in two nights. I’m so wired. The past week has been a complete whirlwind. Between packing, last-minute doctor appointments, and taking care of arrival details, I’ve also been organizing tons of goodbyes. I’ve lived in New York City for most of my life (I was born here and grew up in Manhattan), so I didn’t think I’d feel sentimental about leaving this city that feels so normal. And normalness, as you may know, is my pet peeve these days. But all of a sudden, I do feel a pang of sadness, not so much for my surroundings, but for the people in them.  My whole family is here, and we’re very close. My biggest fear is that I’ll come back from Paris a year later to find everyone’s changed. Who knows—by the time I return, Big Sister could have a baby, or my parents could suddenly be old.

Nothing spells quarter-life crisis more than turning your world upside down to move to France without much thought as to how it will affect your career, happiness, relationships, or bank account.

I am about to turn 24 in a few days. And a few days after that, I’m packing up my life into two suitcases (somehow) and moving to Paris for a year. While I don’t quite fit into the mid-twenties bracket when the quarter-life crisis traditionally sets in, I knew about six months ago that it was beginning to happen.

Two years out of college, the regularity of my life had become puzzling. On the one hand, I realized how I was settling in with the idea of being a “grown-up.” On the other, the lack of transitions was starting to get to me. It’s ironic how you spend the first 22 years (if not more) of your life in transition with markers of beginnings and ends. Change, to me, was a comforting constant.

During this two-year period, I began dreaming of Paris. I’d spent my junior year abroad there. It wasn’t the most fantastic year of my life, and I even left the city thinking I’d never be able to live there again, but, yeah, I changed. A lot.