Perhaps it’s fair to say that many of us have had at least one daydream about leaving it all behind to loll about in some idyllic setting, right? I was uncommonly fortunate to have done so, and it was an incredibly joyous experience, repeated language induced humiliations aside.
Alas, even at the height of my days of wining and dining and gazing at my navel until I was cross-eyed, I knew that sooner or later, la vie française would come to an end and I’d have to return to the real world.
But again, my lucky streak continues. Okay, so I’m no longer surrounded by places like this…
…and to be sure sublime Frenchiness can typically only be found, well, in France.
But the other day I was walking with two lovely new co-workers (my office is packed to the rafters with lovely people), to a coffee shop (a Victoria obsession), just beyond this building…
…and I thought here I am in a wonderful country, in a charming town by the sea where there’s something beautiful to be found everywhere I look.
Sure, now I’m back to the daily grind, however, it’s a grind I love (so far, early days and all that) and, incidentally, one that allows me to actually leave the building from time to time, something not tolerated in the sweatshop known as the Emergency Department. So maybe the real world isn’t so bad. Of course, a few days later came a reality check of a different kind.
I was standing on a street corner waiting for Neil to meet me for yet another round of moving in errands. Along came a tall, decent looking man albeit quite casually dressed (torn jeans, baseball hat), not uncommon here on the laid back West Coast. He looked me up and down and flashed a bright smile. “Well, hello there,” he said, “Waiting to get picked up?” How wonderfully friendly folks are in these parts! “Yes, I am,” I said, equally smiley.
Clearly, I’m far too literal a thinker. He and I had different understandings of the phrase “waiting to get picked up,” because then he said, “Wanna party tonight?” Now I suppose any woman with half a clue would’ve said something like, “Move on buddy.” My slick response? ”No, thank-you, I have to work tomorrow.” So, it’s not surprising what he said next: “What about some other night?” How exciting! I haven’t had a come-on since the attack of the persistent redhead over a decade ago.
Miraculously, I recalled that I was married and the disclosure of a husband in the mix sent him off, still smiling like a fool and, I couldn’t help noticing, listing ever so slightly to the left. I looked around and saw that I was standing between the Salvation Army Mission and a park that seems to be a gathering place for those seeking comfort in chemicals. Friendly, my arse—he was completely wasted. Still, it’s so nice to be asked.
Which brings me to my long rambling point: it’s all about finding the right balance of fantasy and reality and, of course, it’s all in how you choose to see things. I say my new set-up may prove every bit as joyous as the layabout European adventure. And, with enough drugs on board, I look like a party girl. What more could I ask from life?