Paris, the city of l’amour, saw its first ever Divorce, Separation and Bereavement Fair over the weekend. Attendees learned about solutions for easing the pain of separation, including financial and legal counseling, life coaching, seduction tips, and cellulite removal methods (because that’s the first thing on the mind of a divorcée). They could even hire private detective agencies to discover their partners’ infidelities or hidden financial assets.
“To move on, people have to go through a process of grieving for their past life, for the hopes they had, for the image they had of themselves and of their relationship,” said event organizer Brigitte Gaumet to Reuters. One 46-year-old woman went to the fair looking for ways to cope with her difficult teens now that her divorce is finalized, but, instead, ended up booking a wardrobe makeover with an image consultant. She said she needed to boost her confidence. Here are some of the workshop titles: “How to bounce back,” “How to love yourself in order to bounce back,” and “The role of plastic surgery in reconquering one’s self-image.” I don’t think cosmetic surgery is necessary for building self-confidence, but it is interesting that newly single or soon-to-be single people could find this many resources under one roof. So, if this phenomenon of the divorce fair came to the States, could you see yourself attending? You know, if you were unfortunately (or not-so-unfortunately, depending on the circumstances) going through a separation. [Reuters] Keep reading »
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.
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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.” Keep reading »
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. Keep reading »
The fashion industry has been hard hit by the recession, and it looks like it may take some strategic political partnerships to find the path of recovery. After the collaborative efforts of Fashion’s Night Out, New York City mayor Michael Bloomberg is helping to launch another initiative to help stimulate the fashion economy. This time, it’s a designer contest which will begin next month, reports the Post: “The mayor will stage a competition to pick 12 up-and-coming designers for a new city-sponsored fashion ‘incubator’ facility. The project is aimed at helping New York attract young talent by providing cheap design space.” [NY Post]
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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. Keep reading »
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:
- The morning of the incident, he had logged in to OK Cupid. It had previously been almost two weeks since he had.
- 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.
- 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.
- 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.
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Watch out Internets! The First Lady of France, Carla Bruni-Sarkozy, has just arrived at the party, and man, has she got a few things to say! Just yesterday, Bruni-Sarkozy made her first foray into the online world—and promptly crashed her own site with all the juicy nuggets of inner thoughts and general self-promotion. (Could you image MObama pulling this sort of thing? Barry and the White House press crew would not be happy.) Anyway, as the Daily Mail reports, the French First Lady mostly focuses on what she calls a “beauty contest” between Michelle, Princess Letizia of Spain, and herself—with each woman vying for sartorial and hair/makeup supremacy. Yes, she actually came out with it. And in those terms. What else did she blab about? A few inside-voice observations unleashed, after the jump.
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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.
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A public restroom in Paris so pretty that maybe even the snootiest editors in town for Fashion Week might use it. [IPreferParis.net] Keep reading »